


Naruto Gods: Heavenly Bodies

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: Naruto Gods AU [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Art and writing, F/F, F/M, Founders-centric, Gods and Goddesses, M/M, Multi, Warnings are listed at the beginning of each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2019-10-19 16:30:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 35,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: In the beginning, there is only the shapeless void, Kamui.(This is an illustrated compendium of folklore for the characters of Naruto, re-imagined as gods and creatures of legend.)Update:Sasuke, God of Oath and Sword





	1. Character Guide and Index

**Index** :

1.) Kakuzu _as a primordial god (God of Destruction)_

2.) Madara _as an elder god (God of Hearth and Home)_

3.) Tobirama  _as an elder god_   _(God of Ice and Waterways)_ ****

4.) Hashirama _as an elder god (God of Creation and Renewal)_

5.) Izuna _as an elder god (God of the Forge)_

6.) Izumo and Kotetsu _as minor gods (Gods of the Gate)_ ****

7.) Kakashi _as a minor god (God of Truth and Deception)_ ****

8.) Gai and Rock Lee _as divine spirits_

9.) Tsunade _as a goddess (Goddess of Justice)_ ****

10.) Dan Katō _as a god (God of the Vestibule)_ ****

11.) Obito _as a mythological creature_ ****

12.) Jashin _as a primordial god/dess (God/dess of Death)_

13.) Kimimaro _as a minor god (God of the Moon, Guardian of the World Tree)_ ****

14.) Orochimaru _as a god (God of Knowledge and Discovery)_ ****

15.) Sakura _as a goddess (Goddess of Healing)_ ****

16.) Hidan as the _Chosen of Jashin_

17.) Hinata _as Kakuzu's Oracle_

18.) Kurama _as a star-born power_ ****

19.) Mito _as a rock giantess_ ****

20.) Naruto _as a demi-god_ ****

21.) Shikamaru _as a shadow creature_ ****

22.) Sasori _as the Harbinger_ ****

23.) The Third Kazekage  (Tenno Notama) _as Lord of the Djinn_

24.) Shino _as a mythological creature_

25.) Konan _as an elder goddess (Goddess of Shaping)_ ****

26.) Gaara _as a demi-god_

27.) Sai _as a shadow creature_

28.) Sasuke _as a god (God of Oath and Sword)_

29.) Indra _as a god (God of Shield and Sky)_

 

 

 

Mythological affiliation to be determined

 

30.) Itachi

31.) Ibiki

32.) Mei _as an oceanic goddess (Goddess of the Deep)._

33.) Kisame

34.) Suigetsu, and Mangetsu

35.) Zabuza and Haku

36.) Iruka  _as a Taniwha._

37.) Mikoto

38.) Deidara

39.) Ino

40.) Genma

41.) Tenten 

42.) Minato and Kushina

43.) Shisui _as a god (God of the Chronicle)_.

44.) Shikaku

45.) Rasa 

46.) Jugo 

47.) Darui

48.) Yagura

49.) Neji

50.) Kiba and Akamaru

 

 ~~Suggestions for additional characters are always welcome up until we hit #50.~~ Aaaaaaand we're there. :D

 


	2. Kakuzu, Primordial God of Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is power in a name.

In the beginning, there is only the shapeless void, Kamui.

A single thought arises from this epicenter of kinetic potential, given a name like a heartbeat by the pulsing ether. 

Kakuzu.

It is the first sound to be born, and Kamui shudders beneath the resonation of its power.

The thought quickly grows and gains mass as it suckles at the teat of entropy. It is impatient and rapacious--a violent thing--feeding so rapidly that Kamui must expel it or risk its own destruction. Bleeding photons and quarks, the shapeless void envelopes Kakuzu in a pocket dimension and thrusts the errant thought out into a universe rife with half-formed worlds. 

Kakuzu is not pleased to be taken from the nurturing embrace of its progenitor, but is immediately drawn to the warmth of this alien universe. It toys with expanding a gravitational singularity until it grows bored, then takes two mighty halves of debris and slams them together with the force of a supernova.

Kakuzu fashions a physical body for itself out of that same rock composition and establishes an identity, a purpose.

He casts his multitudinous hands out into the newly formed world and terraforms it to his liking. He claws into the rock and crushes it into powder, finding simple pleasure in its ruination. Then, he tilts the small world such that a nearby star catches sight of his pile of sand, warms it, makes it glow red. This, he calls the desert. The inhospitable heat of it pleases him. He brings forth a volley of wind to tend to it and serve as its caretaker. As he was given a name in the void, so too does he gift this power to his creation. 

Its name is Konan.

With a sharp crack, Kakuzu tears back into Kamui--using his creator’s unique nature to his own ends--and reappears on the other side of the planet. It is far colder here, likely a result of Konan’s gluttonous warmth. Regardless, there is a certain beauty in the balance between climates. It’s so unlike Kamui’s chaotic lack of consequence to have one action be the basis for the nature of a related effect. It’s all quite intriguing. 

He fashions limbs to stand on his newly formed landscape and strides across the frigid valleys. Each footfall scars the surface and sprouts spires of ice in its wake. Massive sheets of crystalline lattice twist upward to pierce the low-hanging clouds and cast the land in blue and green reflections of the distant sun. Kakuzu builds a kingdom of muted light and watches as his breath fills the air with fog. The result is not quite as pleasing as his work in the desert.

He fashions a denizen from the frost on his skin and assigns it the task of molding the fields of frozen ground into something more palatable. 

Its name is Tobirama.

An unknowable stretch of time passes. However, nothing Tobirama painstakingly sculpts is to Kakuzu’s liking. It’s still far too cold.  

Furious at the perceived slight, Kakuzu plunges one disembodied fist into the core at the heart of his planet and brings forth a blinding stream of magma. In his rage, volcanoes sprout across the planet’s surface and split the rock face into a field of Pangeaic plates. When he finally calms to a simmer, Kakuzu reclaims his hand and gathers a generous flow of lava in his palm. He gives it sentience, then settles a fiery mantle of command on its shoulders. It is to unmake Tobirama’s icy fortress--unmaking Tobirama itself if it resists--and fill the dark places in the world with light and heat. 

Its name is Madara. 

Without further clarification, Kakuzu steps back and flashes through Kamui, starting anew on yet another side of the world. This, he paints with clouds of gray and black. He threads his tendrils through the atmosphere and creates sparks as he whips at the hydrogen and oxygen molecules he finds there. Lightning illuminates the cloud cover and spears the planet with barbs of light and searing heat. The result is a blinding panoply of afterimages, soon made even more disconcerting by the advent of the first rain. Kakuzu catches a bolt of electricity out of the air, studies it, then bullies it into a ball of white-hot flame. It sizzles and pops in the falling rain, and shows its displeasure with a mighty crack of thunder. Kakuzu laughs.

Its name is Izuna.

He gives Izuna a body wrapped in molten metal with the flame at its core, in many ways a brother to Madara’s own making. As with the others, he imbues his steward with the power of one of his own hearts, allowing Izuna to manage his interests in his stead. This land of rain and lightning holds promise.

Finally, Kakuzu allows himself a moment of respite, to step back and watch his heart containers tend to their respective duties.

However, his rest lasts a mere millennium before it’s interrupted. 

An unfamiliar thought floats to him on a zephyr, clear despite the ambient sound of clashing elements. It has the harmonics of Kamui, though this thought’s name sounds more like the hissing of blood through valves than the three strong beats of his own.  

He shoves his fifth and final heart into the rich, loam soil for safekeeping and takes off in search of this possible usurper. 

In his absence, delicate, green tendrils sprout up around the beating heart. They lovingly insinuate themselves into the spaces between muscle fibers and draw on Kakuzu’s power. Roots shoot down far into the planet, teasing at the magma flows and wandering freely. On the surface, the construct arches long, woody limbs towards the sun as it stretches languorously.

Its self-given name is Hashirama.

It resolves to embrace the whole of this burgeoning world, starting with the cold, doleful heart deep in the Northern tundra. A field of ferns blooms in the wake of its smile. 


	3. Madara, Elder God of Hearth and Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is purpose in endless possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warnings:_**  
>  Non-graphic violence  
> 

 

 

Madara winces as the molten slag on his arms contracts and hardens with each touch of the field of frigid stalagmites. He flicks off the gathering obsidian shard and assesses his counterpart--takes stock of the strong, slow beat of Kakuzu’s heart in Tobirama’s chest and how it mirrors his own. They share a similar form, if not function, that much is obvious. Why their creator sought to have this heart container in particular brought to heel is beyond him. Madara finds that, though fire roars in his veins, he does not have a taste for senseless destruction. 

Instead, he sweeps through the spires of ice and hollows out a bowl-like depression wherein his flame is safe from the biting wind. Tobirama follows him, hesitant, but intrigued by the creature so like himself. They come together to invent a language based in gesture. When this fails to convey their meaning sufficiently, Madara curls his fingers into fists and storms off across the glaciers in a fit of pique. Lava flows rise up to meet each footfall and dot the land with stepping stones. Sometime later, a mighty yell rattles the landscape and shatters the more delicate constructs. 

Tobirama frowns, but chooses to wait. 

Eventually, Madara returns, bringing with him sound and the concept of speech to better ease the tension between them. It’s soon realized that they both have much to say. Tobirama speaks of architecture, possibility, and the bending of light. Madara listens intently and responds with foundations, suggestion, and the harnessing of flame. A century passes in shared company as they explore their existence through both words and experimental touches. 

The impetus of Kakuzu’s command still lingers in the back of Madara’s mind, but it’s difficult to imagine a world bereft of this spark of intellect. The melting ice under his hands is achingly beautiful, and the flesh beneath even more so.

Still, the cold climes eventually prove to be too taxing. 

Regretfully, he pans across the landscape with its mountains of snow and pinnacles of ice one last time and settles his focus on Tobirama’s sharp, red gaze. This he takes for himself so that while he is away, he will see his erstwhile companion in every reflection. 

Despite some truly explosive arguments, the landscape has remained unchanged in all his time here. Kakuzu’s ire will be mighty, but Madara cannot find it in himself to care. He says as much and seals his promise to return with a kiss. Ice turns to hissing steam as he flows through the permafrost and is gone.

In his absence, Tobirama continues to proliferate the tundra. Madara’s stepping stones become a well-worn path. Everything else remains a formless blanket of blue, and green, and white. 

Roiling in the heat of the planet’s core, Madara discovers traces of other heart-containers like Tobirama and himself. Too, it appears that their side of the world is significantly more hospitable for a creature born of molten rock. It’s the work of a moment to follow the rifts in the earth and flow out to meet them. He traipses the desert and finds himself immediately assailed by Konan’s might. There is little appeal to the shifting sand and the way it turns to glass in his wake. It’s warm, but so unwelcoming it takes him aback. 

He howls right back in the face of Konan’s wind, pointlessly posturing, and retreats to the planet’s burning center before the retaliatory sandstorms can bowl him over. 

He will not be returning to the thrice cursed desert. He will seal that promise in blood.

His next foray brings him to a land of falling water. Droplets hover, suspended in the air until a mighty crash of sound shatters the balance and sets them in motion. Madara watches the rain sizzle across his skin and smiles up at the sky where arcs of light blind him and leave stark afterimages. Izuna is far more enjoyable company than the last container. That he shares Tobirama’s knack for engrossing, but trying, conversation is a welcome discovery. Even greater a revelation is the kinship of shared flame that burns in their veins and unites them in both composition and brotherhood. 

Sometime later, happenstance introduces Madara and Izuna to their final sibling, a strange, mercurial heart container. Hashirama blooms forth from the ground and shakes off a thick patina of frost from his travels. 

He is a nuisance, a vine whose insipid sap somehow manages to creep beneath Madara’s standoffish facade. 

As Izuna rolls his eyes and busies himself in the atmosphere, Hashirama shows Madara how to shape and mold flora and fauna from the flesh of the planet. He happily instructs Madara in the trappings of simple joy. Together, they fill the night with birdsong and make trees to broach the barrier between ground and sky. 

Madara revels in this newfound concept called ‘life.’ It engenders a soft, protective response in him, the novelty of which is striking.

Tobirama would be fascinated. 

Despite the pleasantry of Izuna’s love and Hashirama’s camaraderie, memories of Tobirama’s crystalline plains linger. It’s difficult for Madara to leave Izuna and Hashirama’s side, but the tundra calls to him as well. Torn, he resolves to bring together all of his favored brethren. 

He scoops up a handful of rich, black soil and holds it out to receive Hashirama’s blessing. A tiny yew seedling is coaxed forth. It’s a lovely thing--deep green with a crown of leaves like spear-heads. On its five branches, Madara hangs a small token of each of Kakuzu’s progeny. They dangle like minuscule fruits: a bright spark for Izuna, a flower bud for Hashirama, a shard of Konan’s hardened silica (gathered from the remnants in Madara’s hair), a kiss of frost for Tobirama, and an eternal ember from his own heart.  

Satisfied, Madara opens a fissure in the country of rain. He glances back one last time and sinks into it, ushered onward by Hashirama’s knowing smile.  

He arises from his long sabbatical in a plume of magma only to find that a new species has taken root on the planet’s glacial surface. Their chests contain the beat of something very much like Kakuzu’s hearts, but more subtle and with a note of Hashirama’s influence. He sets down his divine yew and observes the fledgling race of humans as they struggle to survive in Tobirama’s wasteland, ultimately taking pity on the frail creatures whose penchant for familial bonds mirrors his own.  

Madara offers the heart from his chest to warm them and his fan to stoke the flames. The tundra begins to thaw due to the unmitigated heat of his heart, but the humans seem to fare better.

The fact that Hashirama had failed to mention already having met Tobirama and sharing this particular gift of knowledge rankles. Frustrated by his failed attempt at wooing Tobirama with a new discovery, he storms off in search of his austere sibling. 

He does not have long to wait.

Tobirama whips across his territory in a howling gale and takes to buffeting the rapidly melting ice with his coldest temperatures. The odd creations Hashirama left behind to accompany him in his isolation flee his wrath and, in so doing, reveal the cause of his tundra’s injury. 

Madara watches him curiously, pale and shining with molten slag as water boils at his feet. 

Tobirama wastes no time on greetings or pleasantries. They had an accord, one sealed with something deeper and far more intimate than words. To renege is inconceivable. To be abandoned and then taken apart upon his return cuts deeply, regardless of Madara’s paltry excuses. 

Tobirama’s fury is as cold and biting as his element, offering no quarter and no opportunity for further explanation. 

Tempers flare and Madara reacts in kind. Lava eats away at the pillars of ice and sends them crashing into a newly formed ocean. Obsidian swords pierce the glaciers that survive the first attack and draw them down into the waves. 

The battle is violent, brief, and very much one-sided. In the end, Kakuzu’s wish comes to fruition. 

Tobirama’s ice is summarily beaten back. 

In its place, Madara’s adopted clan of humans propagates. They forsake their prior god in favor of this new, fiery one, taking his symbol as their name. The Uchiha further claim him as their patron, honoring his strength with the dedication of each new child born, and gifting him with the title of “the God of Hearth and Home.”

Though Tobirama survives their battle, Madara’s victory is a hollow one, and not without loss. He invented language to converse, but neither of them had ever mastered the art of negotiation and compromise along with it. 

The memory of things said in anger haunts him.


	4. Tobirama, Elder God of Ice and Waterways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is a tempestuous thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> Non-graphic violence  
> Shifting relationship- change of partners

Infuriated by Madara’s encroachment on his territory, Tobirama bides his time and tallies his losses. It’s ironic that the humans consider Madara a familial god when all Tobirama can attribute to his name is the original betrayal--the destruction of the life they had built together. 

Where once great castles of ice stood, there is now a flowing current of water lapping repeatedly against exposed soil. The ocean waves froth with the reverberations of the anger that he keeps choked off inside of his chest. It takes all of Tobirama’s strength to turn away from the duplicitous lover who stole Hashirama’s gift and his home. Rationally, he knows that the Uchiha are blameless in this, but resentment bobs at the surface as freely as an ice floe. He gathers his power in the soles of his feet and strides out across the ocean. 

On the shore behind him, a burst of greenery heralds Hashirama’s arrival amongst the patches of moist earth. 

Tobirama fails to note his presence, wrapped up in introspection as he is. Not even the cheerful greeting--like dappled sunshine on rustling leaves--registers. Instead, Tobirama reflects on the time that he spent in frozen isolation as he patiently awaited Madara’s return. He recalls dark days and nights spent studying the intricate society of Hashirama’s gift and teaching the humans the stories of their creation in-turn. 

With a clenched jaw, he bites down on the flood of remembrance that threatens to unmake his resolve. It should have occurred to him that the profound power of Madara’s love was a double edged blade. 

All that remains is to throw himself upon it. He will either reclaim his role as the humans’ God of Ice and Waterways or be destroyed in the process. Either outcome will suffice to dull the pain. 

Once his physical wounds close, Tobirama sends forth another bout of frost to retake what is rightfully his. The Earth itself groans beneath the god’s revenge-driven volley and humanity cowers in the caves created by the continental bones of Madara’s Susanoo. For every crystalline buttress that Madara melted to carve out a home for his mortals in the first battle, Tobirama builds five in its stead. The sky grows dark with countless layers of ice. A frigid blanket flows into the valleys and seals the molten fissures with which Madara travels. 

Incensed, Madara responds in kind, strength pitted against cleverness. 

Volcanoes loose their fiery payload and sear scars though the landscape in a billowing clout of steam. The water churns and shoots up massive geysers with gnashing teeth of foam. Embers glow in the boiling waves. 

The conflagration of his wrath is overwhelming. It flickers in his eyes and seeps out on sulphurous breath. Where before he was merciful, in this battle he holds little back.  

Once again, Tobirama finds himself outmatched by Madara’s might. His loss is a bitter, forced thing. Still, his tenacity drives him on unflinchingly. He only gives ground when he is finally bent double around Madara’s fist and too exhausted to continue. He clutches at Madara’s stomach and thighs as he slips to the ground. From his mouth pours the first river, stained blue with his blood. 

His ice sheets soon melt completely to form oceans across the world and nourish newly revealed land.

In his defeat, the sun bears down on the rich loam of the Earth and reveals germinating seedlings, reaching up like hands. Madara calls him seven different kinds of idiot, then grasps the tender leaves and pulls Hashirama from his bed of frost. 

Hashirama insinuates his vine-like fingers between Madara’s and drops to his knees with a burst of cherry blossoms to gather Tobirama up in a one-armed embrace. He shudders as his power of renewal surges to heal the worst of their wounds. The green glow soothes the hurt, both tangible and not, and provides clarity.

Tobirama’s bolt of realization is a painful thing. He was wrong. It is not Madara’s love that is cursed, but his own.

His lover, his brother, his humans--all have suffered under the yoke of his favor. Filled with a sudden conviction, he digs out the seed of his love from his chest and thrusts it deep into the earthen heart that beats a steady rhythm against his cheek. Best to give it to someone who can better nurture a thing so delicate and tempestuous.

Hashirama releases a long, reedy gasp at the unexpected flood of emotion. When he opens his eyes, it’s to a panoply of color that wasn’t there before. 


	5. Hashirama, Elder God of Creation and Renewal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A village is born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warnings:**_  
>  Public sex

 

Hashirama, God of Creation and Renewal, briefly reads the guilt in Tobirama’s pained grimace and the story of struggle in the scarred landscape around them. He knows he cannot assuage his brother’s grief completely, but, with this powerful new emotion pulsing alongside Kakuzu’s heart, he finds that he wants to try. 

With a cry, he crushes his divine brother in a one-armed embrace and takes strength in the smell of hoarfrost. Words of comfort pour from his lips and his heavy breaths harden into a patina of rime where they gather on Tobirama’s skin. 

His pectoral glows between them where Tobirama’s palm lingers, and, when the chilled hand pulls away, a crest of icicles lies emblazoned on his chest. 

Hashirama traces it with reverence, long lines of verdant green blooming from the ice god’s mark. It’s a beautiful addition to Kakuzu’s already well-crafted mold, he thinks. Though, even more wondrous is the sudden up-welling of affection he feels towards his icy brother.

This strange, new concept--love--overtakes him completely.

In return for this gift of overwhelming emotion, Hashirama plants the seed of his own crest on Tobirama’s flesh, and anchors it with a smattering of the power of creation. A gift for a gift, those his is paltry in comparison. 

Finally, he turns to look up at Madara, as if seeing him for the first time.

He takes in Madara’s sharp eyes, the absence of his heart, and the magma flows upon his arms. The fury that Hashirama sees there gives him pause, but then he drops his gaze to their still-interlaced fingers and his smile is like the dawning of spring.

He loves his brother of ice deeply, but he cannot find it in him to tear his focus from Madara for more than a moment. Tobirama slips from his grasp as he rises, instantly besotted. 

With a touch as soft as milkweed, he traces the ragged edges around the hole in Madara’s chest and soothes the obvious ache, filling the cavity where Madara’s heart had once been with his own flesh. This, he imbues with a generous portion of Tobirama’s gifted capacity for devotion. He kisses the newly formed scar while his hands map a path across Madara’s skin. Madara’s anger fades to wonderment as Hashirama grasps his hips and pushes him down into the newly green-packed earth, unashamed.

Mokuton bursts to life around them and erects vast, shapeless pillars of wood. Fire races through the pillars, shaping and forming them until the scent of pitch is heavy in the air. Months later, the dance of heat and creation builds to a crescendo. With an eruption of chakra, the charred timber resolves into inelegant, but functional structures. Houses dot the landscape with streets between, like leaf-bud laden branches. 

The village of Konohagakure is born from Hashirama and Madara’s coupling.

Eyes averted, Tobirama approaches them in the aftermath and falls to his knees. He vows to protect Konoha—his brothers’ progeny—with his life as the first of many reparations. He offers his waters to sustain the humans who will call it home and his icy wrath to ward off any who would oppose its conception.  

Hashirama smiles at him. He runs a hand through his brother’s hair in acceptance of both his vow and the apology driving his words.

Madara leans in—close enough to grasp Tobirama’s jaw and share his winter-frost breath—and imbues Tobirama’s oath with his own will of fire, sealing it between their lips. 

Despite the intimacy, Tobirama feels nothing for the god he once loved. 

Hashirama will now bear that bittersweet burden.


	6. Izuna , Elder God of the Forge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is rot in a seed left untended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warnings:**_  
>  Non-graphic suggestion of adult kidnap

 

As the bitter cold of Tobirama’s rule retreats, Madara’s clan of mortals arise from the spacious caverns between his Susanoo’s ribs and seek succor within Kohana’s walls instead. There, they establish the beginnings of culture and budding independence.

Content to tend to their cherished mortals and watch them grow, Hashirama, Madara, and Tobirama settle  
in. Peace and propagation reign under the elder gods’ tutelage for a human generation.

***

Half a world away, Izuna sweeps through the torrents of rain that characterize his sodden domain. Loud, angry rumbles follow in his wake, the only voice in his domain since Madara and Hashirama left to seek out their brother of ice. The silence between thunderclaps is filled with the sizzle and snap of lightning, but even so, he misses Hashirama’s endless teasing and Madara’s screeched ripostes.

He finds that solitude does not suit him.

The swirling gales of precipitation serve as his companions for as long as he can stand before finally giving in to his own selfish desires. If his brothers can abandon the duties Kakuzu tasked them with whenever they so please, then he can as well, Izuna decides. They all have the same primordial god’s favor in their chest, the same entropic will in their veins. They were all crafted to be equals.

Establishing a means of travel has never been of interest or importance before. His energy has always been focused on being the consummate steward. This newfound purpose burns beneath his skin and pulls skeins of liquid gold up from the earth. They shroud him in armor and pierce his shoulders to reach up into the sky. There, he gathers forth the kinetic potential that thickens the air. It crackles around him—a veil of heat lightning—and pulls forth a wellspring of tin around his feet.

The sensation of building power is promising.

He attempts to drill his metallic will through to the center of the planet, much like Madara and his tunnels of magma. Flame spews forth to surround him and rock melts at his touch, but the incessant rains cool much of his ore before he can fashion it into anything useful.

Ultimately, it’s a fruitless endeavor.

Instead, he pauses to consider the aspects of Madara’s form that are different from his own, no matter how seemingly insignificant—a lava mantle in place of metal, the length and thickness of the smoke plume on his head, the crimson of his eyes.

Izuna adds more smoke to his own appearance, ties up his ridiculous fountain of hair, and labels himself a fool.  

He attempts to rearrange the pigments in his eyes, thinking that perhaps the key to Madara’s means of  
transport lies there. It doesn’t. But, as the power of his borrowed heart pulses along his optic nerves, the world unfurls like a flower before him. He can see it all laid out, transparent and filled with light. The beauty of it steals his breath. Intoxicating.

Sluggish veins of minerals flow beneath his feet. They slip through and past each other and tease at the edges of something  _other_. Bright flares of chakra flit amongst each other in the far distance. Green, red, and blue, leaving comet trails in their wake and merging to create a new color palette.  

His brothers have made another god, it would appear.

In that moment, Izuna discovers what it is to desire—to be covetous of a thing.

He grasps for the distant heartstrings of his brothers and feels the pressure of Kakuzu’s pulse beating behind his sclerae. A moment later, the dam bursts and his senses bleed red.

Kamui heeds his accidental call without hesitation and reaches out to devour him whole. Shivering at the frigid darkness, Izuna can just barely make out a field of box-like structures jutting out of a black void before he is abruptly shoved back into the world.  

The coldness that has nothing to do with temperature lingers in his bones.

Regardless, his brothers are close. Their chakra warms him and chases away the ache. The sensation makes him swell with a childlike glee at the sudden influx of sound. There will be time enough to ponder the odd tear in reality later.

Crowing with joy, he arcs across the sky in a blinding flash of magnesium. Only a thin forest canopy remains between him and his siblings. He crashes straight through it to embrace Madara like a vice. Hashirama joins Madara in greeting him with equal parts surprise and elation.

They rush to speak of all that’s happened in his absence, talking over each other in their enthusiasm. Izuna laughs and allows himself to be introduced to Konohagakure, to Hashirama’s mortals—to Tobirama. He notes the way Hashirama’s touch lingers on Madara’s wrist and can’t help but stare at the gaudy tree plastered on the ice god’s chest.

Before he can consider the implications further, Madara tasks him with imparting the knowledge of metallurgy and tool use to the fledgling race of humans.

Izuna, God of the Forge, takes to the given role with aplomb. He finds himself enjoying the company of  
creatures who share his commitment to family and interest in flame. As a species, humans glow like sparks cast from an iron anvil--voracious in the pursuit of knowledge and eager to apply lessons learned. They take to innovation quickly, using the elder gods’ collective guidance when needed, but otherwise relying on their own burgeoning independence. As such, Izuna’s direct intervention seems to grow less necessary with each new generation brought to bear. Oral tradition and written language supersede the need for demonstration  
of his molten will.

With dwindling usefulness, he begins to seek purpose in other things.

Distractions prove to be helpful for a time. He toys with the idea of designing weapons, pours himself  
into reinforcing Tobirama’s aqueducts. But none of it satisfies for long.

His inactivity begins to fester into something raw and poisonous. Time spent idle leads him to think on the symbolism of Hashirama and Tobirama’s shared markings and Madara’s preoccupation with the God of Creation.

Hashirama has become his brother’s lover, his confidant, his anchor. Even Izuna’s worth as the shield on his brother’s back has been subsumed by Tobirama in this strange mortal experiment of theirs. The only tie to Madara that Izuna feels has been left to him is the molten blood in his veins, for what little that’s worth.

Izuna’s eyes shift and bring the cracks of his broken heart into sharp relief. Kamui whispers to him, neither stoking his flame nor diminishing it, simply reaching out to listen to the song of his growing resentment. He uses his newfound connection to the being that spawned his own father and explores the power inherent in his gifted Sharingan.

Genjutsu is a potent weapon, Izuna finds. It’s simplicity itself for him to press up close and manipulate an unguarded mind.

He vows to make the ebullient God of Creation understand his anguish. Hashirama will know the pain of losing a brother.

In the end, Tobirama is far too trusting of his allies.

Izuna eases in and plants a seed of false emotion in the void where Tobirama once felt love. He claims all of Tobirama’s new-found devotion for himself and forces Madara and Hashirama to the backburner of Tobirama’s regard.

Mind filled with faux affections, Tobirama’s laughter rings out like falling icicles, complemented by Izuna’s own thundering mirth.

The moon watches placidly as he steals the will of fire from Tobirama’s lips and casts it to the ground. Together, they disappear under the cover of night.


	7. Izumo and Kotetsu, Minor Gods of the Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warnings:_**  
>  Adult kidnap

Tobirama and Izuna’s absence is glaringly apparent in the lack of dew drops on the morning grass and the strangled coals of fire pits long gone out. 

Irritated with what he perceives as a shirking of his brother’s duty, Madara barges into Izuna’s forge, all bluster and choking ash. However, his tirade abruptly peters out at the discovery of a single metallic drop of Izuna’s blood. The scattered slivers of the will of fire entrusted to Tobirama crack beneath his feet. They paint the ground in a prismatic wash of color as ominous as it is beautiful. 

Madara backs away from the scene with a mounting sense of foreboding, eyes flicking wildly about the room for any missed clues. His pumice mantle fills with magma. It drips from his fingertips and leaves a sizzling trail in his wake as he erupts into action to share burden of his discovery.

As expected, Hashirama takes the news poorly.

 Tobirama’s gifted love is not rooted in rationality. It surges up through his chest like a thing possessed, volatile and covetous, and pours forth from his lips like heartbreak.

He screams his brothers’ names into the dawn air. As the piercing call subsides, birds fall silent and the trees weep in sympathy.

Madara tries to console him to no avail. 

In his grief, thorny vines encase Hashirama’s body and lash violently at any and all obstacles that impede his mad dash into Konoha’s surrounding forest, the living extension of his will. He stoops to gather a sweet gum fruit in one hand and a stem of catchweed in the other. Without pause, he channels the power of creation into their delicate seeds and extrudes two men, fully formed. Before the ichor of their seed pods has even dried on their skin, Hashirama embraces them. He names the one born of sweet gum “Kotetsu” and the one born of catchweed “Izumo,” gifting them with keen minds and armor hewn from his own flesh--bolstered with swaths of sunlight. He quickly molds his hands around their hearts and fills them with the clutching tendrils of his need to see his brothers returned to him. Without question, the chakra-laden godlings turn and race through the canopy on limbs made of dappled sunlight, opening their senses to the dormant wrongness of Tobirama’s ice.

Madara watches them disappear into to forest and pulls Hashirama’s unresisting body into his arms. They take strength in each other and settle in to wait for the godlings’ return.

The search leads Kotetsu and Izumo across vast swaths of forest, over vales of soft grass, and through water-worn valleys bracketed by peridotite and basalt. Never faltering in their mission, they nonetheless make the time to admire the quiet beauty of the world around them and to appreciate the easy camaraderie between them.

When the air turns crisp, they grin fiercely at each other and push their god-wrought forms to all but devour the distance.

The pinpricks of Tobirama’s chakra feel like tiny icicles flickering against their skin, growing harsher and more piercing with proximity. Izumo presses on despite the discomfort—dragging a reluctant Kotetsu behind him—and abruptly stumbles upon a frozen cave pocked with scars of charred earth.  After a brief exchange of wary, but determined, glances, they cautiously pick their way through the patches of stalagmites and pools of slag.

The cave is as dark as Kamui’s heart, illuminated in patches by the cool glow of Tobirama’s chakra. Each crunch of divine slush beneath their feet sets off a transient din as they descend.

When a second chakra begins to flash painfully behind his eyes like the afterimage of a lightning strike, Kotetsu takes hold of Izumo’s wrist and reels him back. They stumble against each other and gape in horror.

Izuna, powerful and imposing, draws himself from the shadows and approaches at a sedate pace. He brushes his fingers along each of Tobirama’s icy outcroppings in an intimate caress and takes pleasure in the sharp hiss of steam. When he introduces himself, his palms are bare and open to show that he is of no threat, but his smile is molten in the lowlight and promises pain.

Kotetsu and Izumo stay close to each other, knees half bent and ready. However, having only known Hashirama’s gentle touch and the admittedly benign dangers of the forest, they are ill-prepared for the wickedness of Izuna’s machinations. 

They are even less prepared for the Sharingan that sears through their minds and devours their will.

Izuna smirks as what are obviously Hashirama’s progeny crumple to the ground. For now, they sleep. He’s not unduly cruel, after all. 

The chill of Tobirama’s palm resting supportively against the small of his back is a welcome addition to this moment of triumph. Permafrost kisses follow soon after, mapping the curve of his neck and only sweetening his victory.


	8. Kakashi, Minor God of Truth and Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discovery and a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warnings:_**  
>  Non-graphic violence.

 

When Kotetsu and Izumo do not return, Hashirama’s despair hardens into grim resolve.

He searches Madara out in the Uchiha clan’s Hall of Learning, heedless of the spectacle his vigorously lashing roots makes. 

With one glance, Madara excuses himself from his favored humans and approaches him. The spindly whipcords reach out to wrap their tendrils around his calves and biceps--binding them in more than just spirit. Hashirama cups his jaw, and presses their foreheads together with a broken entreaty to find their brothers. Fire flares in Madara’s belly--potent and powerful--igniting a conflagration within the hearth of his ribcage.

Hashirama had only to ask. 

He immediately leaves his home behind and sears his way across the world in a roaring gale of fire and wrath. Gods and wild bands of humans alike quake before him. The land bears the deep scars of his passing. 

In the end, Madara finds them, not by following the frost-riddled echoes of Tobirama’s lost love, but by delving into the static charge that resonates from the mirror of his soul. 

Tobirama, healthy and hale, greets him at the cavern entrance with an uncharacteristically open smile and insists on making tea. Madara shrugs off his gentle touch, fists his hand in Tobirama’s crystal lattice hair, and drags him down the scant few inches to place them at eye level. Madara furrows his brow as he assesses the cause of Tobirama’s absurdity. 

There is something there, something wrong, deep in the ice-god’s eyes. It slips away from Madara’s grasp and forces his focus to roll away like water beading on an oil slick. Even so, his resolve is a potent thing. He hooks his foot behind Tobirama’s knees and forces him to kneel, slowing the fall with his vice-like grip. As Tobirama looks up to him--silent and still as a penitent--Madara snatches his chin and locks gazes.

There is power behind his intent.  

Finally, the crackle of chakra gleaming in Tobirama’s stare buckles to reveal the ghostly reflection of Izuna’s own sharingan, cleverly hidden in irises already stained red. 

At the revelation of Izuna’s plot, Madara turns the cavern into a raging firestorm. The air itself burns until the fabric of reality threatens to buckle. Only after the edge of his wrath is dulled can he focus on Tobirama and undertake the arduous task of pulling the iron net from his mind.

This is something he’s never had to attempt, a task he is not innately built for. Between them, Izuna was the one more suited for work of such delicacy. 

Regardless, Madara digs in deep. 

Tobirama’s prolonged cry of agony pierces straight through him and arrests his breath. To hear such a sound from the typically stoic god is nearly enough to unmake him. Out of necessity, he grinds his teeth, redoubles his resolve, and presses on.                                                                    

It takes an inordinate amount of time to find the seams of Izuna’s chakra and wedge his finger nails beneath, but eventually Madara manages to pry the staticy film from Tobirama’s mind.

The hiss and pop of superheated metal heralds Izuna’s presence behind him. How long his brother stood and observed over his shoulder, Madara can’t say. But, judging by the clench of Izuna’s jaw and the white of his knuckles, it was long enough for the shock to wear off and anger to set in. 

Gouts of liquid gold spout from Izuna’s stomach and arch up to spear through his chest, as if to punctuate the very real pain underlying his churlish demeanor.

As he turns to face Izuna, Madara’s own countenance is steely, but his chest aches with the evidence of his brother’s betrayal. Before he can find the courage to pronounce judgment on the twin of his soul, he feels the weight of Tobirama’s hand settle on his shoulder. 

Eyes downcast and visibly trembling in the aftershocks of pain, Tobirama shakes his head sharply. He ignores the raw rasp that his voice has become and proceeds to describe the depths of Izuna’s anguish, explains the insurmountable loss branded into his heart. Despite all, Tobirama understands the reasoning behind the kidnapping, though he makes a point to not condone the method. He offers a solution to avoid the inevitable tempest of Hashirama’s outrage and to restore Izuna’s mental well-being, one which Madara only reluctantly agrees to.

Izuna roars his denial. Their solution changes nothing.  He swears upon his own forge that the force of his ire will overshadow Kakuzu himself. By the void, he will share the love hoarded between his brethren or be struck down trying. Liquid tin drips down his cheeks, belying the emptiness of his threats. 

Without meeting Izuna’s eyes, Madara slices his palm on his own obsidian-laden forearm and allows the blood to pour onto the ground. He takes Tobirama’s hand and pulls him up to stand at his side. Fingers interlaced, Madara presses their conjoined hands first to Hashirama’s crest—emblazoned on Tobirama’s chest—then stoops down to touch their palms to the small puddle of his life’s blood. When they rise together, a man is revealed inch by inch beneath their conjoined palms. It’s slow going and the creation is far from perfect, but it shimmers with promise.

Izuna falls quiet and looks on, forlorn. He can only watch as Tobirama and Madara’s miracle of creation is pulled from the earth, inch by inch. Regret curdles in his stomach and dampens his anger. He had thought Hashirama to be the only one among them imbued with the gift of life-bearing. To think that Tobirama has access to that headspring as well only makes him want the God of Ice and Waterways more. After this, any possibility of that union will be lost. 

Madara names the construct “Kakashi, God of Truth and Deception,” and entrusts him with the duty of enforcing contracts and serving as the keeper of secrets. He traces a molten finger across Kakashi’s left eye—leaving one of Izuna’s lazily swirling tomoe in his wake—and binds his mouth with a mantle of magma.

When asked if he will accept the yolk of Izuna’s shame, Kakashi silently cocks his head and his eyes crinkle under the force of his sly smile.

He meets all of their gazes in turn, pulls the knowledge of Izuna’s betrayal from all but Tobirama, and houses it within himself. He replaces the memories of Izuna’s festering hate and of Madara’s subsequent grief with genjutsu-wrought recollections of a far more benign nature. Izuna and Madara will remember the kidnapping as no more than the machinations of a trickster kitsune. And, if Kakashi replaces Izuna’s passion for vengeance with the initial stirrings of an epic romance waiting to unfold, surely that was part of the kitsune’s plot as well.

Satisfied with his work, Kakashi shoves his hands deep into his pockets and goes to gather the two godlings, Kotetsu and Izumo.  

Meanwhile, Tobirama grimaces and squints in the afternoon sun as he steps out of the cave for the first time in six months. Izuna follows close behind and brazenly snakes an arm around his waist to pull him close under the guise of shielding Tobirama’s eyes beneath the shadow of his own open palm. Good humor sparks in his Mangekyou eyes.

Tobirama considers him briefly, brow furrowed, but doesn’t pull away.

With the burden of Izuna’s truth heavy on his shoulders, Tobirama resolves to halt the growing rift between the elder gods. In so doing, he will restore his brother’s peace and ensure Konohagakure’s continued prosperity. 

Pragmatism will prevail.

The will of fire will burn on, he and his first son will see to it. 


	9. Gai and Rock Lee, divine spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The divine tree takes root.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warnings:_**  
>  Gai being the best character in Naruto  
> Kakuzu being rude to the shrubbery

 

 

Tobirama takes to his self-imposed duty touting the same single-minded focus with which he approaches all challenges. 

Knowing the events that led Izuna down the path of hatred and spite allows for him to take preventative measures. He chastises Madara for his inattention and browbeats him into accompanying Izuna on scouting missions for six months out of each year. 

The brothers rove far and wide, gathering wild humans to them in satellite villages and sharing with them the knowledge of civilization. The elder gods’ divine spark grows ever brighter, though the weather suffers for the loss of the Uchiha brothers. 

Madara’s favored humans have taken to calling the cold days of their absence  _ Tobirama’s winter _ .

For the six months that Izuna returns to warm Konohagakure with his liquid heat, Tobirama takes a sabbatical from his duties in the village to nurture the bond between them. In love as well as war, he comes to find that the God of the Forge burns as brightly as his namesake. The smoldering coals of Izuna’s devotion flare, ember bright, with each stoke. His wit is as swift and sharp as any blade and he possesses a core of folded steel that Tobirama can’t help but admire.

For all their differences, they are well matched.

In time, Tobirama allows his self-imposed duty to be replaced by something genuine and much more satisfying between them.

The village blooms, prosperous and strong, and Kakuzu’s sons find peace in their purpose and each other.

Though, the peace proves to be a rather novel concept outside of Konohagakure. 

Kakuzu frowns as he exits Kamui and steps into a world not as he left it.

Black blood drips from his nails and patters across a bed of what he will come to learn are leaves. While the birth of an unexpected sister required immediate handling, the extended duration of his absence was obviously a miscalculation. 

His heart containers thrum with vivacity in only two points now, one on the opposite side of the planet from her amassed counterparts. Tendrils whipping, he takes stock of his altered world and gnashes his teeth.

To have his will superseded by his own flesh is inexcusable. 

He bounds up the bole of a massive tree and launches himself past the canopy, bursting through the barrier between dappled light and sky. Lacerating the sunshine with a fissure of nothingness, Kamui’s maw gapes wide to devour him at his call. An instant later, Kakuzu lands heavily on a cliff overlooking a biome that he cannot immediately decipher. There are a thousand sparks of life milling about in what appears to be an elaborate construct of wood, metal, and stone. The small creatures are ungainly, weak.

Unworthy of his notice.

He scoffs at the infestation and focuses instead on the four pillars of interwoven chakra in their midst—how odd that his progeny have blurred at the edges, he thinks. Even stranger still is the additional heart container thrumming with joy amongst his children of fire, lightning, and ice—one Kakuzu absolutely did not craft.

His fists slowly unclench. One by one, they fall lax.

The heart he buried in the earth has given rise to a creature even more powerful than his intentional creations. How bizarre.

Mildly intrigued by the new development, Kakuzu stays his hand and turns from Konohagakure. He resolves to watch these new happenings unfold from afar.

Once more, Kamui heeds his call and deposits him in Tobirama’s abandoned domain with a soft hiss.

Where once Tobirama’s ridiculous spires of ice stood now lies an ocean of such immensity that the horizon is no more than the kiss of blue on red in the distance. Reflections of its glassy surface flit across Kakuzu’s gaze. He observes it all with golden eyes and nods in approval. The little fire-starter, Madara, quickly rises to the position of most tolerable in his regard. The destruction wrought here is so artful that he can perhaps be forgiven the slight of abandoning his post.

Snorting derisively, Kakuzu releases his multitudinous hands to fly forth and pierce the veil between water and air. He washes off the tacky remnants of his sister’s blood in the surf, infecting the sea foam and sugar sand with a cloud of darkness. As his hands continue to cavort in the waves, he walks the length of the beach and ventures out to study the scars of war embedded in the earth. They’re beautiful, deep and redolent with the scent of despair. Enthralling.

Gravel crunches beneath his bare feet as the land begins to change. The topography bucks and twists like heartbreak, unfolding a story both painful and bittersweet. At its epicenter, a small sapling stands alone amidst the sandstone—its boughs heavy with small fruits. Chakra swirls lazily within them, visible through their translucent skin.

It gives Kakuzu pause.

To have an effigy of his elemental natures so prominently displayed is off-putting at best. That the insipid thing can apparently reproduce those same powers without need of the primordial god’s seed is absolutely infuriating.

Without waiting for his hands to rejoin him, Kakuzu wrenches the offensive tree from the ground with his teeth and attempts to ignite it using the overwhelming force of his will. Amazingly, the tree resists the God of Destruction and shudders as new buds burst forth along its branches. Thousands of tiny fruits roll across the ground and settle amongst the small crevasses. Some are flung so far from the ferocity of Kakuzu’s thrashing that they plunk into the ocean and bob in the sunlight before sinking slowly beneath the waves. Others still soar between the clouds and fall like rain half a world away.

Roaring through a mouthful of bark, Kakuzu recalls his hand of air and snatches the sapling away, thrusting it so far into Kamui’s folds that it would take a force mightier than any in existence to unmoor it.

Even so, such a dangerous font of power is not to be taken lightly. Kakuzu rallies his strength and rips great chunks of rock from the moon above. He molds them into the shape of a man—pale and glimmering—while careful not to allow his construct to touch the earth.

Unlike his heart containers, this golem will remain unadulterated. It will bend beneath his word without question. He gives the creature a name and purposes him with guarding the world tree that his children so impetuously birthed.

With the flick of a mass of tendrils, Kakuzu sends the man hewn of moonlight into the darkness of Kamui and turns away without remorse.

***

Off in distant climes, infinitesimal chakra fruits fall to the earth. 

They bounce and roll, eventually settling throughout the forests, upon the grasslands, beneath the hot desert sands, and within the waterways that bind the earth. They take form from the land around them and give birth to the first animals.

Where greater quantities of fruit gather—those of all five chakra natures—amalgamations of godly influence arise. Some take the guise of the humans they see around them, some the animals and plants. Others are content to flit about in the elements as ephemeral spirits.

In Hashirama’s forest, one such spirit dances along the mighty roots that provide sustenance to Konohagakure’s ever-expanding body. He assumes his name to be Gai after a human traveler addresses him as such.

It’s a joyous experience to have an appellation.

Grinning, Gai races through the forest as he hunts for chakra fruit that failed to germinate. Twigs crack and trees shudder under his boisterous expedition, each graceful step made clumsy by his self-imposed time limit. When his arms are too full to hold his bounty, he begins to devour the berry-sized fruits to make more room.

Each bite fizzes gently on his tongue and suffuses his body with strength. At a point, his translucent skin begins to crack and hiss under the sheer force of the power contained within him.

The forest around him glows red and ominous.

However, like the fruit from which he was spawned, Gai simply segments himself into eight equal pieces and shoves that overwhelming might behind gates of pith, taking up his game again with a jaunty tune.

In time, he masters the art of the hunt and sets off in search of the next challenge. Though, over and over again he finds that there is little that can occupy his attention for very long.

Leaves explode into the air as he drops to the ground, bored. The sun rises, splintering through the trees and refracting through Gai like a crystal. He takes pleasure in the panoply of rainbow colors his body makes, watching them as they dart among the leaves.

It’s such a beautiful world he’s been born into.

While he ponders his next test, he pulls out a handful of the leftover fruit from his arm. He peels them gently and delights in the various colors he can make by combining their juices. Nectar drips down his forearms and stains the stones he rests on.

Intrigued by the concept of making, Gai channels a small bit of power into the slurry he’s concocted and imagines a companion, a spirit like himself. He focuses on it for some time, but nothing happens.

It wasn’t nearly this hard for the other fruit spirits.

He grunts and redoubles his efforts.

Still, nothing—a challenge, then.

He keeps at it for a fortnight, brow furrowed and lips pursed. His roiling chakra draws the interest of Konohagakure, who stretches and sends its consciousness along the pathways of its massive root system to search him out. What it finds is an aura of delight, girded by dogged purpose.

The sudden rush of sap through its xylem is surprising.

Konoha’s rootlets creep through the soil and taste the potent mix of chakra fruit. It curls around Gai’s ankle to get a more accurate measure. From that brief connection, the stone splits and a spirit bursts forth.

He stands tall, mostly transparent and a mirror to Gai’s own good cheer.

Gai looks down at the rock in wonder, then back up at the gaily laughing spirit. He names him Rock Lee—because naming conventions are beyond him—and leaps up to embrace the embodiment of his determination.

Konohagakure bemusedly pulls back to relay the story to its fathers.    
  
Hashirama will be overjoyed to know there are even more founts of godly life taking root in the world around them.


	10. Tsunade, Goddess of Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cherished things should be protected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Vague allusions to sex

 

 

Word travels swiftly on Konohagakure’s rootlets. Its limbs crack sidewalks and rattle foundations in its rush to share the news of strange, new creatures to house.

Ever wary of threats to his adopted family of mortals, Madara immediately roars forth in a gout of flame and sears his way through the underbrush to assess the interlopers. The larger of the spirits watches him in wonder and grins in the face of the elder god’s mighty posturing, then rushes forward and prods the magma on his arms.

There’s no ill-effect, no pain-filled cry at touching what is essentially the God of Hearth and Home’s power made tangible. The ferocity of the world’s core is housed in his bones and this ridiculous thing treats him as if he were little more than a curiosity.

Absurd.

Madara slaps his hand on the nape of the spirit’s neck like a collar—it goes by the name Gai, apparently—and gives the same treatment to the smaller version that watches him, wide-eyed and unblinking. They happily trot alongside him to Konoha beneath what should be a crushing grip—doing so with the same animated idiocy as Hashirama in a summer shower.

Perhaps if he could muzzle them as he did Kakashi, the spirits would stop chattering so incessantly.

He attempts it.

He fails miserably.

Drawn by the commotion and intrigued by the resigned slump of his Madara’s shoulders in the village proper, Izuna joins his brother of fire. Madara’s hair is salt-stiff under his fingers and smells of sulfur as it always does when he’s feeling particularly put-out.

This is going to be interesting.

Echoing his sentiment, Konohagakure eagerly draws forth its father and uncle from the distant fields. They ride a current of water suspended in the air and land without sound on the hard-packed dirt as it dissipates.

Pleasantly surprised by his new audience, Gai tells of his inception into a world of diversity—plants and animals and people all united in the miraculous bond of camaraderie. His words spin a tale of a monstrous force scattering chakra fruit to the farthest reaches of the world, then thrusting the life-giving World Tree deep into a void of nothingness.

Madara blinks, long and slow. He had forgotten about his proposal gift to the ice god. Circumspectly glancing at Tobirama’s crossed arms and severe expression, he thinks that perhaps it was for the best that Kakuzu returned the sapling to Kamui.

After all, even during the time love thawed his tundra-like heart, the only gifts Tobirama ever really accepted from him were the scarred war wounds curving down his cheekbones and chin.

Hashirama’s vibrant laughter finally draws him back from his maudlin thoughts.

Too intrigued to give even passing notice to Madara’ internal crisis, Tobirama asks pointed questions and harries the spirit on any and all inconsistencies in his narrative.

When pressed, Gai reveals that not all of the chakra-based creatures have integrated with the world so easily. In fact, some might be a little adverse to the miraculous bond of camaraderie.

His face falls with the forced admission but Rock Lee is quick to interject. He expounds at length regarding the curative power of friendship despite not having met the creatures Gai speaks of. Surely they would understand if things were explained to them.

Izuna sputters, then explodes—pure, unbridled laughter spilling from his lips. Hashirama can be a bit much at times, but these spirits are entirely beyond his ability to cope in a sensible manner. Not even his husband’s narrow-eyed gaze can stop him from clutching his stomach in mirth.

It’s completely ridiculous.

Joining in on what is surely a great joke, Gai echoes him with hearty guffaws that are soon taken up by his doppelganger. The spectacle drives Izuna to copper tears and sets him to wheezing. It’s too much. Tobirama’s icy hand on his shoulder is sobering, but not enough.

Sighing heavily, Tobirama exhales a roiling cloud of frost and excuses Izuna and himself, disappearing before the fog dissipates. The chakra fruit spirits are undeniably powerful, but not a threat. Izuna’s blasé approach to diplomatic relations, however, is an affront to nature.

After extensive discussion, the God of Creation and Renewal asks to see these creatures not of his seed. He soothes Madara’s protests with a gentle kiss and motions for the spirits to guide him, to show him the world as they have seen it.

Gai and Rock Lee take to their task with aplomb.  

In the space of a heartbeat, they sprint through the trees like sunbeams. Gai runs from biome to biome and excitedly points out the creatures he’s discovered. Some are strange forms that Hashirama’s never seen, animals, apparently. Others are odd amalgamations of animal and human or spirit—rock giants, sphinxes, eldritch beings and the like.

Hashirama’s eyes glow green in wonderment.

Along the way, they excitedly compare the differences they’ve observed between the Uchiha and the wild humans and spirits.

The mortals in Hashirama’s care, like the others Gai has met along the way, have figured out the mechanics of sex. That much is obvious.

Why, Gai himself was able to master the techniques in a day using the same single-minded determination with which he approaches all challenges.

It wasn’t difficult.

But, what he could make neither heads nor tails of was why there were no little people made by human unions in Konohagakure. The animals and spirits could make fruit in the forest. Why not them?

He brings his concerns to the God of Creation’s attention, who lights up at the discovery. Together, they manage to formulate a plan for the Uchiha to propagate as well.

When they finally return to Konoha, it’s with a fevered spark in their eyes.

Brow pinched, Madara promptly leaves the home he shares with Hashirama and holes up with Tobirama and Izuna in relative solitude until the dust settles. He feels no shame in the strategic retreat. It’s a nice sabbatical to banter back and forth with his brother and sip at the tea Tobirama serves them—so bitter it dries his throat.

He wants nothing to do with whatever makes Kakuzu’s most powerful heart-container smile with that many teeth.

Eventually, Hashirama joins them, exuberant and bursting with glee. Dispersing a portion of Gai’s near infinite chakra wells throughout Konohagakure had astonishing results. There were now little people amongst the figures Hashirama had pulled from the earth. The population of Uchiha could grow and propagate without divine influence.

The God of Creation goes on to describe the strange thing their humans call aging, where the little people grow into bigger people if given the correct kind of care, like tender shoots. It’s all so fascinating.

Despite his initial hesitance, Madara leans forward and listens as his love tells sweet anecdotes of humans caring for their progeny. It’s so incredibly different than the abrasive introduction to the world Kakuzu gave them. He can’t help but to tangle his fingers in the vines twining about his legs and hang on every word.

Tobirama, however, is far less adept at weathering his brother’s long-winded speeches and rises to pick apart this new discovery for himself. Small spires of frost trail in his wake as he easily sidesteps Madara’s aura of flame.

He comes to see that Hashirama’s recollection pales in comparison to the reality of what the humans call children. In an instant, he is smitten. The icy planes of armor he adorns himself with chip and spill down his body.

Uchiha watch him cautiously, but—seeing the soft reverence on his face as he goes to one knee and holds out his hands in supplication—offer to share with him their small joys. For the first time since his creation, the ice in Tobirama’s chest well and truly thaws.

Sometime later, the other gods join him—even their own children—and marvel over this subtle gift of divine providence. Tobirama eases his precious burden into Madara’s arms, gently cradles its tiny fist in his palm, and takes his leave to make arrangements of a more pragmatic nature.

There will need to be a way of protecting these younglings from the new dangers of the forest. He will see to it.

Meanwhile, Gai and Rock Lee bracket a long-suffering minor god, clutching an arm each with tears in their eyes. They waver in the sunlight, shifting between translucency and solidity, overwhelmed by the elation they can sense radiating from the elder gods and their root-bound child. Konohagakure is such a vibrant, lovely place—peaceful and resplendent in divinity.

As one, they trade thumbs-up and decide to settle there.

Kakashi shifts uncomfortably between them, knowing a portent of doom when he sees it.

In the coming days, the village continues to thrive under the careful watch of its pantheon and the fond guidance of the elder gods. Tobirama establishes protection details, but the gods’ seasonal movements fail to make coverage as comprehensive as it should be. Too, without walls to protect their flank, much of their defenses would be reactionary.  

Surprising his more detail-minded brother, it’s Hashirama who suggests a fitting solution.

Tobirama critically inspects the plan for weaknesses or unforeseen variables but, finding none, agrees.

Job done to satisfaction, he slides his hand into Izuna’s and stoically demands to return to their hidden home.

Though, it’s uncharacteristic of the ice god to give up control of a situation so readily.

Suspicious, Izuna studies his red eyes and stalactite jawline for any sort of tension that could belie an as of yet unforeseen motive. He finds none, but there is an intensity to Tobirama’s focus usually reserved for planning infrastructure.

Izuna follows the line of his husband’s gaze—a mother soothing the fussy child at her breast—and takes a moment to interpret the meaning between the domestic scene and this inexplicable urgency to leave.

Oh.

_Oh._

When the pieces of the puzzle slot together, Izuna grins with the sudden knowledge that they have work of their own to do.

They vanish on a lightning strike.

Besotted by the budding delight in his brother’s soul, Hashirama sends them off with his blessing. In turn, he calls forth Tsunade—the result of an experimental dalliance with the rock giantess Mito during his travels—to bear the burden of Konohagakure’s safety.

It takes some convincing and a touch of bribery for her to accept the responsibility, but when she does, she takes to it with unparalleled competence.

Fissures open beneath her feet with each measured stride as she navigates the circumference of Konohagakure. She observes the village with a critical eye and deems the humans within it worthy of her protection. With a mighty bellow, she strikes the earth with her war hammer and erects a massive wall around the fragile mortals’ homestead.

Sheer walls of stone and vine burst into the sky and settle with a shockwave that flows out into the forest beyond. The monsters of the forest shy away from the thrumming power of the Goddess of Judgment and a new age of prosperity dawns on Konohagakure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the quiet interlude while you can. One more chapter of set-up, then things start getting dicey. ;D


	11. Katō Dan, God of the Vestibule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Kamui, existence is relative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warning:_**  
>  None
> 
> This chapter is an interlude of sorts, setting up mechanics for subsequent events.

_There’s so much to take in. Too much. In an instant, he’s bounding through wet underbrush on paws the size of dinner plates. They split into legs like spokes out of the long, sinuous body of a centipede._

_Chitin gives way to the thick thighs of a spirit more man than beast._

_Bipedal legs turn into fins._

_Fins merge into scales._

_Scales into stone._

_He’s disjointed._

_Gone._

And then, suddenly, the god can breathe again. 

And he does, taking in great, greedy swallows of air tinged with sandalwood. Each gulp brings his wandering spirit back to his body and the senses within. 

There’s dirt at his back and warmth in ten points across his temples and jaw, puzzle pieces that connect into the lose shape of hands. It’s juxtaposed by the cool breath that flows across his forehead and tames the storm raging in his chest.

The weight of his duality is taken from him and anchored around a much stronger neck. Only then is he fully moored back in his body.

When he garners the courage to finally open his eyes, the bleary image of a face hovers over him. The figure is lovely in her strength. Familiar.

Then she speaks and everything slots together. This is Tsunade, the Earth-Heart’s daughter and scourge of the forest according to the more vexatious spirits.

Katō Dan—yes, his name is Dan, he remembers now—smiles, eyes soft, and reaches for her face. Skin as smooth as river-kissed stone meets the scales of his palm for a brief second before she pulls back and tosses him over her shoulder like a sack of particularly irksome potatoes.

She’s enchanting.

Truly.

Though, he should have expected the less-than-gentle treatment after being so casual. It’s obvious she also has no clue who or what the hell he is despite his knowledge of her.

Dan placidly watches the ground crack and reform beneath her heavy footfalls as she takes him…somewhere. His tail drags through the leaf litter and tears up eddies of Kamui, but the Goddess of Justice doesn’t notice.

Between the space of two thoughts, the interior of Konoha’s walls rise up around him and Tsunade leaves him in the care of two smaller gods as she storms off. 

To call on someone? In a fit of pique? He has no idea. It’s a state of being he’s well acquainted with by now.

Kotetsu and Izumo introduce themselves and study him brazenly, tapping a horn with grass senbon, waving their hands through the void of what they would call a stomach.

He’s a curiosity, he knows.

The gods are soon satisfied by the results of their inspection and begin to weave fantastical tales of Dan’s origins. He laughs as the tales grow taller and attempts to interject with the truth of his nature, but the effort is half-hearted at best.

They’re such innocent constructs of ragweed and sweet-gum—fingers intertwined in their excitement as they come to a consensus on a story that suits both of their interests. Their conclusions are wrong, but, seeing their delight, Dan doesn’t have it in him to correct them.

If anything, it would seem anticlimactic to know he was unintentionally cobbled together scale-for-scale by the echoes of Kakuzu’s footfalls through Kamui. It’s not as noble a beginning as the godlings seem to think.

They clap him on the shoulders like long-time friends.

This flood of camaraderie is a joyous one and sets him to laughing so honestly his scales flutter. 

_His mirth continues, taking on a deeper resonance and echoing for perpetuity._

_Massive roots glitter with bio-luminescence around him and he finds comfort in the many arms wrapped around his chest. The chill of his naga companion’s body nestled up against his own is heady._

_It’s so nice to have the partner of his soul so near, whispering sibilant promises that they both know are empty, but are comforting nonetheless. Dan leans down to kiss the purple tracks on his companion’s nose and whispers promises of his own._

_These are much more believable. Honest. Raw._

_The naga sighs, amused but long-suffering, and burrows in close enough to take root in Dan’s heart._

The blue glow of bio-luminescent fungi fades and coalesces into the Earth Heart’s blinding smile. Katō Dan looks around, disoriented, and wonders for a moment where his body took him while his spirit was transferred.

Izumo and Kotetsu are gone, replaced by a spread of new faces.

In one of Konoha’s clan holdings, Hashirama blooms before him with power that spreads petals all the way to Kamui. Izuna, the Lightning-Heart, Dan has actually seen before. There had been a brief exchange when the god tore through Kamui’s depths some time ago, with all the finesse of a rock fall. The other elder gods gathered there are familiar as well, to a lesser extent.

He greets them all in turn and pulls forth chakra fruit from his own flesh as an offering of respect.

Surprised, Hashirama accepts the translucent fruit—the size of a peach—and takes a bite of what is his own earthen taste. Spring bursts forth on his tongue, summer slides into his stomach, and the autumn harvest fills his veins with renewed power. He hadn’t even noticed the gradual fractioning of his own power over time, and he readily admits as much.  

Dan nods and gestures for the other elder gods to partake of their own offerings.

As they do, Konoha fades away.

_His proffered arm is snatched at the wrist and lowered back to his side by a Djinn Lord with wild, wind-swept hair and an expression as flat as the desert he claims. Kamui flutters around them and peels away in places to reveal the first imaginings of red sand. It’s not the world Dan knows, but too real to be a hallucination._

_He cocks an eyebrow at the strange creature’s power and subsequent refusal of the chakra fruit._

_Typically, the godlings don’t hesitate in accepting the healing infusions. Though, now that he looks down, the fruit isn’t there. He struggles to remember if it ever was._

_Taking advantage of his confusion, the Djinn Lord calls forth a wave of iron sand and reveals a platter of delicatessens of his own. He offers these up, face splitting into a clever smile._

_Dan politely declines and takes a step back, closing his eyes against the odd pull of the meat and cheeses._

When he opens them again, it’s to a look of wide-eyed wonder and Hashirama’s strong hand in his own.

Kamui’s walls press in close from all sides. The change in location is startling—he doesn’t recall his body even bringing them here in the first place—but Dan rallies quickly. It’s obvious what he intended to do.

He leads Hashirama, Izuna, and the other two elder gods he doesn’t know by name through the folds of Kamui’s entrance and walks the paths of its womb. The World Tree sits at its center, large and swollen from the currents of power in the gray pillars on which it has taken root.

Dan introduces them briefly to Kakuzu’s quiet specter—the moonlit god who keeps watch over the chakra fruit—but doesn’t tarry. He instructs them in the ways of travel to and from. They learn quickly, all of them, and the Ice-Heart navigates their way back to their village without need for guidance or correction.

Katō Dan feels his spirit bolstered by a job well done. The gods will be able to heal their ails and travel the paths of Kamui just as several chakra-creatures have already been taught. He announces his satisfaction that their well being will be ensured and goes to take up his travels once more. Before he can depart, Hashirama grasps him by the shoulders and tearfully thanks him.

Though, his gratitude swiftly darkens to something nefarious and wrong.

_The Earth-Heart’s tear tracks lengthen into red slashes, indented and oozing like wounds._

_He looms, furious and powerful, and the world explodes into pain._

_Dan clutches at his eyes and impales his fingers on the sharp vines he can’t tear away. The Ice-Heart screams his name with such desperation and fear that Dan finds a well of emotion-driven power he didn’t have before._

_He may be blind, his Sharingan may be torn, but the static crackle in the air guides him out of the path of the next attack._

_Again and again he dodges cleanly until chilled hands cup his face and he knows that he is saved._

This time, the return to his body is a harrowing thing.

He reels away from Hashirama’s concerned face and falls against a chest that might as well be a wall for all the give in it. Tsunade holds him by the elbows and lowers him to the ground as he trembles.

It’s fine. Truly. He explains that temporal and spatial rifts are simply a side effect of his being. They’re not always realities that come to fruition. Even so, his claws gouge the flood-boards in his attempt to backpedal away from the Earth-Heart.

Hashirama holds up his hands as a show of his nonthreatening nature. He squats down next to Dan in concern, the Ice-Heart in interest.  

Subsequently, a pointed bout of questioning—snidely deemed interrogation by the Fire-Heart—leads to the root of his malady. Kakuzu’s disjointed strides, much like Dan’s spirit, both exist and don’t within the same space-time. The thrum of that power bandies Dan’s soul about and creates a constant state of semi-being.

It’s fascinating, according to the Ice-Heart.

Terrible and sad in the words of his brother, Hashirama.

Together, the elder gods and their progeny arrive at a solution, though it’s a loud, boisterous affair. 

The kotatsu had certainly begun the day in one piece.

Too, the curtains hadn’t smoldered quite so obviously.

Regardless, Tsunade manages to instill a mote of fear into her uncles and takes hold of the situation. They still with varying levels of reluctance and allow her to do what needs to be done.

She removes the crystal holding seal from her neck, a gift from her rock giantess mother, Mito, and places it around Dan’s with reverence. Hashirama imbues the delicate necklace with his power, to lash Katō Dan’s spirit to his corporeal body using vines of earth and power. His threads bind the seal tightly.

Instantly, Dan can feel the thrum of infinite paths of space-time converging into one stream. It’s everything he could have imagined. Bright, and sharp, and  _real_.

He thanks the gods profusely and leans forward to kiss Tsunade’s cheek.

The shaft of her war hammer creaks ominously in her hand, but he is away before the blush on her cheeks can be fully realized.

There is a world to see.

One.

Singular.

 

And he wants to experience all of it.


	12. Obito, a mythological creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth will set you free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> **Warnings:**  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> Non-graphic sex

 

 

Before the dust of Katō Dan’s whirlwind departure even dissipates, Tsunade settles an arm each atop Kotetsu and Izumo’s shoulders. She pulls them close against her side and grins dangerously at her younger brothers. It’s with a twisted glee that she names them the “Gods of the Gate,” and forcibly guides them to their newfound post at the massive entryway to Konohagakure. After all, with Kakuzu’s unintentional spawn roaming wherever they will and popping out of the ether when the whim takes them, there’s going to need to be a pair of eyes on the woods at all times.

They bemoan their fate, but self-preservation moves their feet to match Tsunade’s stride.  

Kakashi watches their plight with no small amount of sympathy, but his eyes crinkle all the same. He shrugs his molten shoulders and focuses instead on trying not to drip magma onto the pages of the first book to have ever been written. The influence of Jiraiya—a puckish spirit imbued with the essence of a coyote—is overwhelmingly evident in the sweeping tale of forbidden dalliances between gods and mortals. The scintillating exploits bring color to the tips of Kakashi’s ears as he skirts the gate and wanders off into the forest to hassle the trickster for part two.

Distracted as he is, it’s almost fated that he crashes headlong into the one creature who didn’t get Tsunade’s rather forceful memo to steer clear of Konohagakure’s forests. He rebounds off of a muscular chest and stumbles slightly, reaching out to keep himself from falling.

Kakashi blinks several times and arches a brow at the hard body beneath his hand. He makes a mental note of the page number he’s on before he looks up.

Huh.

It’s a shame he had to stop reading right before the climax, but this may prove to be just as titillating. The set-up is ridiculous—mirrors the first chapter of his romance novel pretty much exactly—but, by Madara’s flame, he’ll take it.

Now to follow the damsel’s lead.   

The ancient creature realizes where Kakashi’s hand is going and shuffles back in alarm, exhibiting none of the grace suggested by his leonine half. He falls onto his dappled rump and shoots Kakashi a look of such pure, unadulterated affront that he can’t help but shudder with silent laughter.

Not a storybook intro, then.

Kakashi rolls his eyes and holds his hands up, waggling his book with faux innocence.

The half-man, half-lion doesn’t buy the act. Instead, he blusters and rails so vehemently that Kakashi can feel the sting of it against his skin. Embedded somewhere between angry sputtering and a rather uncalled for slight against his mother, Kakashi is able to parse out that the charming thing’s name is Obito.

At the tail end of his diatribe, Obito crosses his arms and demands an apology for the assault on his person and the so-completely-not-accidental groping.

Kakashi steps between Obito’s massive paws and languidly waves his book at the magma binding his mouth. The implication that he can’t apologize if he can’t talk is obvious.

In the space of a heartbeat, a dimensional gate tears through the fabric of space-time behind Obito and wrenches the molten mantle from Kakashi’s shoulders. Kamui swallows it instantly and closes with a snap, more felt than heard. Obito grins so wide his scars wrinkle.

As Kakashi stands frozen in place, eyebrows raised almost to his hairline, Obito deftly snatches the book from his boneless grasp and takes off into the trees. He announces that Kakashi can have it back when he learns how to say he’s sorry for being a clumsy, lecherous ass.

For the better part of the afternoon, Kakashi and his new-found rival skip lengthy introductions in favor of cavorting like kindred spirits. Obito’s laughter rings out—redolent of the sweet sound of wind chimes—as they race across fields and attempt to best each other by whatever underhanded means necessary. Chest filled with adoration and fit to bursting, Kakashi opens his mouth to offer his name and an insult on the same breath, certainly not an apology, but can only stare in horror as smoke billows forth when the first word is uttered.

Obito lopes over and hovers a pace away, afraid to approach too closely with the miasma of memory and secrets pouring from Kakashi’s lips.

For a brief instance, the glade goes dark.

 

In the home they share, Izuna pauses where he lies buried between the benediction of Tobirama’s thighs. The steady thrust of his hips stops abruptly as the memory of betrayal stabs through him, raw and more painful than any blade. Sheets of copper sweat continue to roll down his back despite his dying coals.

Noting the quiver in Izuna’s arms and the dawning horror in his eyes, Tobirama pulls him down into an embrace as inevitable as the kiss of morning frost. Izuna tries to push back, to pull out of the cool body beneath him, but Tobirama holds him steady with legs like a vice.

Gold wells at the corners of Izuna’s eyes and cuts furrows into his cheeks, leaving behind molten tear-tracks. He props up onto his elbows and stares down at the ice god incredulously, heat lightning crackling across his skin.

Every second is agony. He tries to ask how Tobirama can stand his touch, how much of this is some idiotic, self-imposed duty, but chokes on the words.

He _knows_ him, knows how he thinks, knows how pragmatic he can be. Not all traps are genjutsu wrought.

Tobirama cups his face and blows a crisp winter wind to arrest the flow of words and metal both. Uncharacteristically gentle, he closes Izuna’s eyelids with his thumbs and plants a chilled kiss on each.

Izuna tries to speak, but his mouth is filled with ash. Words always come so easily to him, except now, when they matter the most. He continues to weep for what he’s done to the man who owns his heart, asks for a forgiveness that he doesn’t deserve.

In that moment, his battered heart-song of fire meets with a resolve of ice.

Tobirama answers that despite the less than fortuitous circumstances that lead to their joining, forgiveness has already been forged in the shape of a consummate husband and two wondrous sons—the recasting of a love once lost to him. There is no more to be discussed on the matter. It’s inefficient to linger on past wrongs.

He slides a hand down Izuna’s arm and intertwines their fingers, digs in with his heels.

For Tobirama, the soft, tentative love-making that follows is an unecessary apology.

For Izuna, it’s barely even a start.

 

Towards the center of the village proper, Madara slowly sets down his cup of tea and hangs his head as if the curtain of hair can hide him from his shame. He viciously rubs his face against his palms, red-tinged and stormy.

That Tobirama would so willingly live a lie—that Madara himself was so selfish as to _let him…_

His companion in all things, Hashirama, sees the tense set of his shoulders from across their chabudai, and goes to him with footfalls as light as falling leaves. He kneels next to Madara and gently lifts his chin until their eyes meet. They exchange a lifetime of joy, sorrow, and truth in a single glance. As Hashirama’s ever-present smile falls in increments, Madara vanishes with a blast of furnace warm air and the lingering scent of Gyokuro and regret.

 

Back in the glade, Kakashi slaps his hands over his mouth, but it’s too late.

 


	13. Jashin, Primordial God/dess of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must always be a balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Violence  
> Mild body horror  
> Allusion to Stockholm Syndrome

 

(A/n: Hidan is depicted in the art for this part, but he won’t show up until later in the lore.)

When Madara, the God of Hearth and Home, appears before his wayward creation, it’s with an aura of rage so palpable that Kakashi’s nervous sweat evaporates in the heat between them.

Noise like crackling tinder fills the vale with each of Madara’s heaving breaths. He wrenches streams of molten earth from the ground and cloaks himself in his element as he approaches, as strong and sure as an eruption.

Shifting his weight, Kakashi cocks a hip and offers a nonchalant waggle of his fingers in greeting.

It’s the exact wrong thing to do.

Madara explodes.

Apoplectic, he roars about the imperative nature of Kakshi’s duty, the far-reaching consequences of his failure.

The strange sphinx-like spirit pressing up close behind the target of his ire is inconsequential, so too are the black spheres that begin to float around the creature’s shoulders. Nothing matters but for fixing the disastrous situation Kakashi’s negligence has caused.

The sun moves steadily through the sky as Madara rails and beleaguers without pause. A good portion of his anger is directed towards himself, but even so, it only adds more fuel to the expression of his mounting rage.

For all of Tobirama’s justifications, the bond of love between him and Izuna is a twisted thing. Madara knows this now—though, he’s not so selfless to say that he wishes the circumstances were different. If this is what it takes for his brother of lightning to still have a home and a place by his side, then so be it, let Tobirama absorb the burden of that tributary into the river of responsibility he already keeps.

It was his choice to begin with.

It’s for the best. For all of them. Things can settle and his family’s story can continue to unfold. Surely Hashirama will understand. Right?

But, he knows that the God of Creation and Renewal, for all his warmth and kindness, has a core of ironwood. He will be unbending in his condemnation once he finds out the whole of it.

Perhaps Izuna’s visual prowess could be used to—

Mortified by his own thoughts, Madara clutches his hair and screams.

Kakashi doesn’t bother trying to interrupt the elder god’s explosive diatribe nor subsequent breakdown. He realizes that his father is all but deafened to anything other than the echoes of his own fear at this point. There’s no point in trying to explain the perfectly benign circumstances behind the broken contract.

 

Finally, the fire in Madara’s eyes burns itself out. He stands before his son, gasping in great gouts of air through flared nostrils and expelling sulfur.

He demands a solution, though the words that fall out are too broken to be taken as the stern command he intends them to be.  

There’s a pause wherein Kakashi appears to be collecting his thoughts.

There is no easy solution as his father seems to think. What has already been released won’t be making a home in his throat again. Instead of considering the elder gods’ novel-worthy dramatics any further, he studies the dirt beneath his own nails--looks up at the shifting canopy above.

Wondering what taste will be like occupies his attention for a few minutes.

Eventually, Madara grows impatient and begins to pace as pressure builds behind his eyes once more.

Obito follows his movements--one predator measuring the threat of another. The conflagration in Madara’s gaze builds back to a crescendo and begins to revolve, slowly at first, then gaining speed.

Tension thickens the air, dry and stale like ash.

Before it can break, Obito cautiously pulls Kakashi against his flank and extends an arm out to warn off the thunderous elder god. His soft, chiding order to practice restraint only serves to stoke the flame of Madara’s wrath higher.

Once again, it’s the exact wrong thing to do.

Madara lashes out and grabs Obito’s wrist with the intention of divesting Kakashi of his misguided leonine shield. However, the moment his searing palm makes contact, Obito hisses against the pain and calls forth Kamui on instinct. In an instant, the void reaches out and shreds the sky above them. Shards of blue and green swirl violently as reality warps and hones in on its summoner.

Teeth bared, Madara digs in his heels and holds on tightly to Obito’s arm with both hands. He hisses that his son is not going anywhere until this travesty is fixed—until Izuna’s folly is wrenched from their minds and put back where it belongs.

A struggle ensues.

Claws catch in the folds of fabric gathered at Madara’s waist as Obito fights to both keep the god at bay and gather his new-found friend close. The air is rife with curses so vile the grass blackens and curls around them.

It’s then that Madara warns Obito of what the wrath of an elder god will entail—fire and blight so potent that the world’s bones will cry out from the ache.

Obito laughs at the threat, holds up the middle finger on his trapped hand, and sends his black chakra spheres to converge on his right bicep. They slice right through. The sudden release of resistance sends Madara crashing to the ground in a burst of leaf litter.

Hissing in an odd amalgamation of pain and triumph, Obito coils back onto his powerful hindquarters, scoops Kakashi up as best he can, and launches into Kaumi’s gate. It closes behind them with a loud snap.  

Silence lingers in the forest as Madara continues to lie on his back and stare up at the canopy where the rift once was.

He sits up slowly and takes in the empty forest around him, the weight of regret replacing his anger and settling around his wrists like shackles. This isn’t what he intended. To attack his own son--there is no excuse worthy enough to consider, much less voice aloud.

Every attempt at rectifying the situation has been a stunning failure. He cannot see a way out.

The final twitches of the disembodied limb in his hand is what brings him out of his stupor. Realizing what it is, he flings Obito’s arm to the ground with a shout. Death has never truly touched the world they live in. To hold a piece of flesh without the spark of life in it is horrifying on a soul-deep level.

It lands with a sickeningly wet squelch. As he watches in dismay, the rosettes on Obito’s arm seem to peel away from the skin and merge with the pool of black blood and grass flowing beneath it, far more than one arm should contain.

The fabric of existence pulses once, powerful and disorienting, and a small fissure opens in the ground to devour the amputated flesh with teeth of stone and a tongue of darkness.

Daring to venture closer, Madara crawls over and peers down into the void, recoiling when something more than Kamui alone stares right back with obvious interest. He scrambles away, sharp peals of laughter haunting each frantic scoot.

Jashin, God/dess of Death, ascends from the puddle of gore, massaging it into their skin with relish as they shudder through the final vestiges of their ascent. Tall and reeking of copper, they cut an ominously striking figure. Thick swirls of shadow flow about their head like the bands of a hurricane, the eye so bright it stings.

Madara balks as they offer him a coy smile and greet him with faux deference, all the while perversely fondling the golden rods piercing them through.

The creature feels so similar to Kakuzu, the only difference being a discordant note in the power thrumming beneath their flesh of boiling pitch.

Jashin explains that they don’t have the time to toy with small-fry, toothsome though he is. Madara splutters—magma cooling and popping erratically. Before he can retort, they flick their wrist and banish the little godling through the realms, laughing.

He’ll be a fun diversion when Jashin has the luxury of savoring their victory, but, first things first.

Freed from their imprisonment, they have a world to devour and a sibling in desperate need of a thrashing.

The imagined pleasure of Kakuzu’s furrowed brow and clenched jaw pressed beneath their foot has kept their flesh hungry and yearning for centuries. Finally, it’s time to open the sluice gates of their resentment.

There is a brother to enslave and a world to destroy.

Jashin laps a long line of blood from their fingers and licks their lips clean. Nothing will remain when they finish with their dearest Kuzu.

 

_Absolutely nothing._


	14. Kimimaro, God of the Moon, Guardian of the World Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World Tree demands silent vigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  None

 

 

In a vale perpetually kissed by faux starlight, Kimimaro, God of the Moon, stands vigil over the chakra-laden World Tree. Its pendulous branches are laden with fruits that phase into and out of existence from one glance to the next. He tends to the tree’s needs with a gentle hand and endless patience, caressing each chakra fruit as he assesses their health. Flames flicker in the seeds of some, tiny cresting waves in others. All elements favored by the elder gods reside within these branches.

The gods appear regularly throughout the nonlinear flow of time—some navigating Kamui’s treacherous terrain in the shadow of Obito’s sure-footed paws, others in Katō Dan’s wake, others still under their own substantial power—but stay only long enough to collect their tribute. 

When he comes, Hashirama, the God of Creation and Renewal, offers Kimimaro words of gratitude and a spring-soft smile. He brings with him the curl of autumn on his breath, hair fanning out behind him like wavering wheat, as well as two new spirits with which to commune.

Kimimaro does not speak in the conventional manner Madara invented, instead communicating in flickers and pulses of moonlight as it waxes and wanes beneath his skin. It’s a rarity for any but Hashirama to make even a stumbling attempt towards reciprocal conversation, but these spirits, Gai and Rock Lee, take to him like kindred fireflies. 

He finds a rare pleasure in telling them of the other gods’ comings and goings, of the things he’s seen in brief glimpses and flashes among the ether. Their joy, though unusual, rattles his bones and makes his ribs sprout from his chest to make room for the fullness of reflected sunlight within him. 

Together, they braid the roots of the World Tree into the bowl of a fountain, into which they juice the miraculous fruits from its boughs. The resulting concoction gifts immortality in one sip instead of five to offset the chill of Kamui when it threatens to seep into the gods’ souls as they harvest. 

It’s a practical solution and one not characteristic of the verdant god and his sun-bright attendants. That it derives from Tobirama, the one god whose essence Kamui cannot adulterate, is ironic, but makes far more sense. 

Eventually, even the bright fertility spirits find the vale too unsettling, the cold too invasive to linger. 

They retreat with a promise to return. As the echoes of their good cheer are displaced by the void, sentient darkness envelopes him once more. 

Kimimaro’s duty is a lonely one, but he has never know anything different.

Time passes in snarls and tangles with events of no more than passing interest. Obito habitually flits about in his periphery, the fountain burbles sluggishly, and the liminal space around him continues to pulse with Kakuzu’s will.

It’s rhythmic and unchanging--until it’s not. 

As humans continue to populate the planet connected to Kamui, the world tree’s roots stretch towards the numerous sparks of life and feed on their radiant energy. Kimimaro is treated to phantasmal images of mortal life and allows himself to live vicariously, cocking his head in wonder at their joys and furrowing his brow at their pain. He observes their comings and goings rapturously and thinks that for the first time in his long existence, this is what it is to feel.

Distracted as he is by visions of ephemeral souls, Kimimaro fails to notice the prolonged absence of Kamui’s guardian sphinx, Obito. It’s an uncharacteristic, near unforgivable lapse of duty for them both. In Obito’s absence, the strict control of the supernatural comings and goings in the vale falters.

Thus, it’s with a jolt of surprise that Kimimaro realizes his failure in greeting the next god with all due alacrity.

A naga—calcite pale and kissed by moonlight—cuts a striking image as he lounges amongst the black branches of the world tree. His scales rasp against Kimimaro’s exposed bones when he descends to drape the god in his seemingly infinite coils. He introduces himself as Orochimaru, God of Discovery, and all but devours Kimimaro with the intensity of his golden gaze. This god is unknown to Kimimaro, but the stars in his hair seem familiar, shimmering with the light of gods that have come before.

Obito’s absence only grows more worrisome, until Orochimaru observes Kimimaro’s plight and offers to share his burden, to hold the loneliness at bay. A god so charitable must surely be worth trusting, Kimimaro concedes. As Orochimaru proceeds to fill the space between them with his sibilant voice, there is no secret left undiscovered by his sharp mind and no inch of skin or bark left unexplored by his deft fingers.    

Kimimaro has never understood the subtle intricacies of emotion, but he thinks that this is what the gods experience when they speak of love.  

The hunter’s moon illuminates his skin from within. 

***

In his distraction, he does not notice the slow twilight of the souls he once watched. He does not see them flicker and die in intervals beneath the weight of something eldritch and old.


	15. Orochimaru, God of Knowledge and Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No knowledge is without cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Orochimaru being his sly self  
> Imprisonment

Orochimaru, the God of Discovery, tends to his schemes with the same diligence and tender care with which Kimimaro dotes on his arboreal ball and chain. It’s the work of a moment to insinuate himself into Kimimaro’s vacant heart and fill it with the cloying taint of hope and empty promises.

He holds Kimimaro’s pliant body in his embrace and cards his claws through the god’s moon-kissed hair. The glimmering strands catch on Orochimaru’s scales, disappearing into a pocket void only a moment later. Crystalline fragments of bone and light soon follow.

Each unique opportunity for study that Kimimaro unintentionally presents is snatched up and consumed by Orochimaru’s clever fingers and critical eye. However, the pretty moon god is a mystery easily solved. As soon as the secrets of the stars are covetously gathered and stored in his coils—each burst of new discovery shimmering like a diamond embedded in the waterfall of his hair—Orochimaru’s interest wanes.

Finally, his golden gaze turns to the World Tree.

The branches of the World Tree bow beneath the weight of their bounty and offer up fruit bulging with the juice of elemental chakra. Its potent perfume invades Orochimaru’s senses and slams into his chest with the staccato beat of Kakuzu’s primordial hearts. Tendrils of unease insinuate themselves beneath his scales with each fruit plucked, but he brushes the unfounded warnings off as if they were dust motes.

Belief in omens is the providence of mortals, after all.

Incidentally, serving as the subjects for divine experimentation is also the providence of mortals, Orochimaru thinks. He grins, his smile holding far too many teeth, and fades out into the depths of Kamui with his bounty of chakra fruit in-hand.

He flickers past the tall, gray plateaus and narrowly avoids a burst of fetidness, even blacker than the void. Oddly enough, fire blooms bright in its wake, tasting of angry elder god.

How interesting.

The last dealings Orochimaru had with Kakuzu’s sibling were less than auspicious--he was the one to design the bars to their cage, after all--but even so, Jashin’s freedom will prove to be an invaluable asset. It’s a convenient distraction from his own machinations.

Too, with the pantheon of elder gods preoccupied, he’ll be free to experiment in peace.

Face split into an adder’s grin, Orochimaru burrows down deep and slips between realms.

The mortal world stretches before him, ripe with possibility. Near vibrating in his eagerness, he disseminates each fruit into a dozen smaller portions and scatters them amongst the food markets in select human settlements, one distinct chakra per country. He returns to his earthly nest and settles in to watch the flow of events unfold. Pupils dilating fully, he wonders what the elder gods will do when their tempestuous little pets rise up and demand their own pantheons, wonders how they will react when he’s found out.

Regardless, by the time they realize his hand in this, it will be too late. The humans will have matured his gift and blazed their own path of discovery under his patronage.

When he takes his fill of those appropriated mortal incubators, he will have such ample stores of new and differentiated chakra patterns that Kakuzu himself will falter in the wake of his knowledge and power.

Kimimaro—poor, trusting godling that he is—will likely take the brunt of the primordial god’s wrath. It’s unfortunate, but a necessary sacrifice. After all, no knowledge is without cost.

Orochimaru yawns hugely and scents the currents of power blooming in the distance.

 

Blinding flashes of lighting crackle across the horizon to the Northeast.

The ponderous grinding of stone reverberates from the Northwest.

Suffocating heat rolls in to kiss his face from the South.

Gales of wind buff his scales with sand from the Southwest.

And the crisp bite of spring water laps at his coils from the Southeast.

 

He tips his head back and fills his senses with the siren call of novelty.

Meanwhile, Kimimaro continues to sleep soundly in the embrace of the World Tree’s roots—content, satiated, and dreaming of pale lips.  

 

***

 

In a land thrumming with a discordant note of unease, Madara wakes to darkness.

He presses up from the floor and hangs his head with a heartfelt groan. Dirt and something tacky that he’d rather not think about coat him like a second skin. His hair sticks and pulls as he tries to scan his surroundings.

It’s disgusting and he wants nothing more than to burn it all off—burn damn near _everything_.

Rage adding more tinder to his abductor’s pyre, Madara reaches deep and pulls at the molten core of himself. He calls forth the flaring hearth fire that sweeps up flues and plants embers in roof thatch, the lava floes that destroy all in their path. This is the all-consuming supremacy of his wrath.

A moment later, he continues to stand in the darkness and gnash his teeth, arms upraised. Nothing happens. The volcanic veins beneath his bare feet remain dormant. His head remains light with the loss of his godly crown.

Again, he tries. Over and over until he works himself up into such a state that he can no longer do anything more than collapse to his knees and scream through a mouth full of froth.

Time has never been a linear thing for the gods, but in this sightless prison, Madara loses his grasp of it entirely.

Minutes are measured by the rattle of his shackles when he turns in his pacing.

Years are measured by the occasional flash of silver and the raucous, expletive-laden laughter that damn near breaks him each time.   

It doesn’t matter, though. Hashirama will come for him.

Izuna.

Tobirama.

Anyone.

Please.

 

 


	16. Sakura, Goddess of Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the softest of gods must bear steel at their core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warnings:**_  
>  None

Hashirama, God of Renewal, sits seiza at the gates of Konohagakure and waits for a glimpse of unkempt hair returning down the forest path.

The once-golden fields of grain around Konoha wilt and the rice paddies dry up in the harsh sun. The mortals suffer for his inattention, leaving offerings to the Gods of the Gate to speak to him on their behalf. Kotetsu tries to convince his father to tend to the fields with mild, measured words that steadily increase in both volume and biting sarcasm when Hashirama fails to react. He begins to gesticulate wildly until Izumo manhandles him into silence and drags him away before they are both summarily unmade.

They instead report to Tsunade, Goddess of Justice. She listens, stoic and calm, but internally seething. She realizes that, after the revelation of Tobirama’s abduction, Madara’s sudden defection would hit Hashirama impossibly hard, but this is ridiculous. She rises slowly from her desk and cracks her massive war hammer against her sternum, opening a gaping hole.

Izumo and Kotetsu backpedal as a woman bursts forth from the rent in Tsunade’s chest, hair stained pink with bloody froth. She lands on her knees in a smattering of cherry blossoms and gropes blindly for her progenitor’s ankles. She clings to them like lifelines as her newly formed body makes the necessary neural connections to function. Tsunade quickly seals the chasm in her own flesh and leans down to set her lips to her other-self’s forehead. Green sparks explode across the new goddess’ skin and mingle with the shifting flowers that comprise her being. Tsunade names her Sakura, Goddess of Healing, and gifts her daughter with a touch of her own strength.

Even the softest of gods must bear steel at their core.

Tsunade holds Sakura to her breast and imparts the message of Hashirama’s need in the code of her fluttering heartbeat. A lifetime of knowledge passes between them in an instant.

With a soft sigh, Sakura rises and lets the blood of her making fall from her skin like so many petals. She instinctively understands that Hashirama is the sturdy trunk from which all other life has branched. He is the heartwood.

The pain of Madara’s loss is her pain as well.

And so, she graces Tsunade with a curt nod as she flexes her fists and takes her leave. Before she steps past the gate, Sakura honors Hashirama with a chaste kiss to the top of his head. There is no reaction, no visible cue that indicates he even knows she’s there.

With a sigh, the canopy shifts, and she disappears in a burst of sakura blossoms.

Wind buoys her pollen high into the air and disburses it far and wide. Her consciousness flits between each tiny grain in her search. Finally, her notice alights on something not of the forest and her body coalesces once more into a colorful being, strong of stalk.

She immediately takes pursuit.

Following the trail of Madara’s guilt is simple enough—it smells of boiling pitch, after all. But, Sakura is ill prepared for the sudden, cloying taste of wrongness on her tongue. The stench clings to her skin and stings her eyes as she nears what appears to be a tear in the fabric of their world. Madara’s crimson crown is cradled amongst the half-desiccated flesh that was once an arm. If she were a lesser being, Sakura would have taken the scene at face value and reported Madara’s defection and Kakashi’s death as painful, but very real truths. Instead, she studies the coarse strands of hair caught within the prongs of the crown and the translucent hair roots at their ends. She notes that curls of his skin glow beneath the rotting fingernails of, not a god, but something bestial and ancient.

Why the elder powers can’t curb their impulse to abduct each other or be abducted in turn is beyond her. Decision made, she girds herself with bands of fortitude and uses her borrowed knowledge to follow the faint echo of Madara’s power into the abyss.

Time passes differently in Kamui, even for those gods typically immune to its ravages. It’s a frigid, cruel place, filled with eddies of unmaking. Sakura continually heals the frostbite that threatens to encroach on her very center and uses the ambient glow of her power to light her path. She bounds across an endless field of rectangular plateaus for what seems an eternity before she unintentionally stumbles upon the thrumming source of Madara’s signature.

Kakashi she knows without introduction—being a distant brother to her blood branch—but the gentle sphinx curled up against him like a house-cat is a riddle in and of himself. Regardless, she recognizes the tension in Kakashi’s eyes and, after a brief introduction, sets about replacing the flesh that Madara apparently took from his companion.

Not an abduction, then, she realizes.

Obito buries his face in Kakashi’s neck as she works, blinking slowly when the pain fades into no more than an unpleasant memory. He turns just enough to gape at her in wonder and thanks her profusely. He doesn’t stop stumbling over his words until she finally settles a hand on his shoulder and favors him with a huff of laughter. The moment of unexpected camaraderie warms him like an errant sunbeam. However, her cold fingers break the fragile moment.  

With a shout of realization, Obito gathers his paws beneath him and crowds into Sakura’s space. The ice crystals forming on her skin immediately retreat at his proximity—his thrumming heat even more powerful than her own touch of Spring.

Kakashi languorously rises from where he was enjoying a rather pleasant cuddle session and climbs astride Obito’s withers, draping his arms over his dappled shoulders. He motions for Sakura to join him and, after only a brief moment of hesitation, she does.

Obito’s long, loping strides tear through Kamui and take them to the only place of reprieve from the bitter void—a place they will be able to speak without the threat of fellow travelers and frost.

When he finally stumbles to a standstill, Sakura unlatches herself from Kakashi’s waist and flexes the stiffness from her fingers. She dares to open her eyes only to find herself beneath the boughs of a massive tree and caught in a gaze as green as her own.

 


	17. Hidan, Jashin's Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is divinity in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Gore and body horror  
> Imprisonment

  
  


Hidan’s fifth life rolls around with the same tedium as the four that came before, balls deep in farming the fields of Konoha. This time, though, he intends to at least make it interesting.

He watches as the elder god’s diadem flashes in the sun and eyes the way beads of tin well up along the divot of his spine. Pure and simple, the God of the Forge is hot. It was predestined or some shit.

Snorting, Hidan picks up his scythe and tosses it over his shoulder. There’s a swagger to his gait as he navigates the rows of soil and animal crap. He’s crafted his body in the god’s image, all long, black hair, honest working muscle, and casual confidence.

Not that the sexy bastard even notices his efforts.

Izuna is too busy entertaining the icicle he has perpetually shoved up his ass to even look up when Hidan stops and leans on his farm tool not a pace away. The dirt feels colder here—like permafrost—as it seeps through the calluses of his bare feet.

Fucking Tobirama.  

Izuna doesn’t even deign to look up from where he slowly feeds steel deep into the ground. Something about pipes and underground rivers or something.  

Who cares about any of that crap? The rain was good enough before.

He says as much and sidles close—gestures with his scythe, completely unabashed in his forwardness.

He’s summarily ignored.

However, his brazen proclamation that the God of the Forge would be better off with a mortal on his cock than a snowball finally gets the elder gods’ attention.

Lips twitching into a sly grin, Izuna takes his coveted husband by the waist and pulls him into an absolutely filthy kiss. It lasts long enough for Hidan’s already tenuous patience to break. He spews curses and epithets that would sear the seed rice if he were anything more than human. As it is, all he succeeds in doing is inciting mocking laughter from Izuna and drawing Tobirama’s blood-red gaze. Disapproval radiates from him in frigid sheets despite his flat affect.

Mortals shouldn’t know the pangs of jealousy; Kakashi truly should have guarded Izuna’s secrets better.

The god of ice slams his palm into Hidan’s chest and tells him to try again.

When Hidan’s soul anchors this time, it’s in the body of a woman getting nailed by a volcano. At least that’s what it feels like. Sand stretches out in all directions and cooks his nethers. He’s heard stories of the desert and the windy bitch who owns it from Madara two lives prior. But this—this is bullshit.  

Ignoring the shouts of silhouettes on the rise of a dune, he realizes that his harvesting scythe apparently carried over from his past life. He sinks it deep into his naked chest and prays to whichever awful thing made the gods that he ends up somewhere with a temperate climate and a view.

He ends up in the ass-end of the ocean with a fish nibbling on his dick.

He promptly drowns himself and tries again.

The void passes him in a flash and deposits him in the depths of a forest. At least this time he’s back in a younger body with a head full of shiny hair and a cleft in his pecs.

He wanders aimlessly for a time, swinging his scythe at leaves and twigs. Finally, he reaches the outskirts of a village and chats with a lone stranger on the road.

Turns out, as cyclical as mortal lives are, it was inevitable that he wind up back at Konoha-ga-fucking-kure.

There’s no excuse, he’s just flat out pissed. His temper seems to get worse with each remembered reincarnation and the smug, sanctimonious ass-wipe singing Hashirama’s praises puts him over the edge. Screaming, he rushes the man and buries his scythe blades so deep into the poor bastard’s shoulder that his torso gapes wide all the way down to the navel.

Blood spurts—arcs so strong they seem to propel the man to the ground—then putters until it’s no more than a steady dribble.

He tells the body to try again and laughs until his stomach aches.

Oh. Oh, that’s  _funny_.

Sure, the dipshit’s essence will just pop back up somewhere else, but it still feels good to send him packing.

As if on cue, the flesh suit flakes away and is set adrift by a strong, chakric breeze. Whatever.

In the following years, Hidan takes to the world at large and slaughters indiscriminately. Knowing there are no real repercussions to anything he does makes reincarnation not quite so unbearable, especially when he gets to be his own god by dictating when the other humans get reborn. Their shared pain never stops being divine.

That is, until one day the body doesn’t dissipate.

Hidan stares at it, manic smile falling. This isn’t how his ritual works. He toes the body, rolls it over, sits on his haunches and watches it for a couple of days. While the bloating is kind of cool, it’s unnerving the way the little spark of Hashirama just…goes away.

After a time, he finally scratches the back of his head and wanders off to take up his nomadic mauling once more.

Except that it happens again.

And again.

And  _again_.

The dumbasses just don’t get reborn. Apoplectic, he raids an entire encampment of wild humans and returns them to the ether. Except they  _won’t go_. Somehow, the rules of the world changed without Hidan realizing and now a pile of charnel is exactly that—guts, and bone, and no Hashirama spunk to speak of.

He screams up at the night sky and claws deep furrows into his face.

Pain is divinity.

Pain is grace.

A hot wind blows and rattles broken shoji screens as he tears into the pile of gore with his bare hands and drags it into a loose remaking of the circle of rebirth. Inside of the circle, he snatches up limbs and deposits them in haphazard lines to represent his own inability to do anything other than bounce around the thrice cursed loop like a fucking Kemari ball.

The sticky lake of blood surrounding the pile of the dead curdles and turns black around him.

Silent and slow, Jashin rises and cocks their head at the grisly monument. They remove a golden pike from their body and shift one of the lines so that the internal glyph is more triangular in shape. Their disembodied feet likewise make no sound as the mud squishes between their toes at the symbol’s center.

It pleases them, this show of their gift.

_Hidan_  pleases them.

Jashin stalks forth and takes Hidan’s torn and filthy face in their hands. They kiss his forehead and croon saccharine promises of belonging and power. There will be pain—so much pain—and through it Hidan will break Hashirama’s cycle. He will become Jashin’s harvester, the bearer of their will.

With another lingering kiss, Jashin smooths back his hair and devours his adoration.

The warmth of hours-old blood creeps up Hidan’s legs and flows up over his shoulders—a mantle of death as black as the void embedded in his skin. White bones slip out of the ooze to stand out in stark contrast against the darkness. Jashin grins.

This is their chosen.

He’s twisted by too many rebirths and an absolute delight. Too, this once-mortal man brings unexpected opportunity, providing the key to Kakuzu’s destruction. A loyal human is just the thing Jashin needed to slip past Kakuzu’s guard and creep close enough to bind him, as only a lowly, insignificant human could.

The void pulses in time with Jashin’s good cheer.

***

While the wounds from the thrice-cursed bracers wrapped around Kakuzu’s wrists sting, the pain is inconsequential compared to the shame that sits heavy on his shoulders. To be bested in combat at the height of his power would have been an agonizing defeat, but a palatable one. Instead, he sits in a damp prison cell, blindsided, waylaid, and bound to a mortal body by his conniving little sister and the devout human refuse she calls her chosen. They’re an even bigger stone in his craw than his own offspring—a noteworthy feat—he thinks sardonically.

The floor chills his blood and brings back bitter memories of the distinctly unsatisfying creation of his child of ice. Between that pale upstart and the accidental container of his earthen heart, Kakuzu can’t decide which conception was most bothersome. Likely Hashirama, the progeny that dared to use Kakuzu’s seed to make life of his own. One day he’ll pay for the slight. But, lingering on past unpleasantries does not resolve Kakuzu’s current internment.

He chooses to direct his impotent rage towards the only other target in the room.

Madara, the Child of Flame, finally stirs with the assistance of a series of vicious, well-placed kicks. His body rocks several times before the pain registers. When it does, he snatches Kakuzu by the ankle and cocks his fist back, more than ready to dance.

However, once he recognizes the primordial presence shining out through a dead man’s eyes, he abruptly drops Kakuzu’s leg and shifts away.

Kakuzu snaps and rails at Madara for his purported weakness, calls him seven different kinds of fool. It’s a relief to release some of the anger building in his chest like steam, a rage that Madara takes and makes his own. The fact of Kakuzu’s overwhelming supremacy doesn’t stop his little spitfire son from spewing vitriol like the volcanoes he commands.

The breadth and originality of his curses stings like sulfur.

There’s a reason Kakuzu likes this one.

***

 In the space between time, nestled deep in the World Tree, Sakura watches Kimimaro with no small amount of wonder. He’s lithe and ethereal in ways her earthen blood can’t quite seem to grasp.

Light bends around him and through him, a panoply that she can hear as well as see.

It’s mesmerizing.

Finally, Kakashi clears his throat and Sakura comes back to herself with a sheepish grin. She shoves away from the warmth of Obito’s flank and pats him absently on the rump.

The God of the Moon continues to watch her—unblinking, expressionless, and still. When there’s no more than a stride between them, he breaks the silence and points out that she is new to his vale and in need of instruction.

That she can translate the underlying pulse of his moonlight draws Kimimaro up short. Unused to being understood so readily, he pushes so close in his eagerness that Sakura’s eyes cross.  

The subsequent exchange is awkward enough to make her laugh, voice like river stones on glass. It startles Kimimaro just enough to interrupt his lightning fast stride of flickers, to calm his waxing and waning.

His erstwhile naga companion had laughed like that.

He slowly cocks his head and offers Sakura his elbow. It’s cool beneath her hand.

Together, they navigate the bole of the Tree, trading information for a boon. In the end, Kimimaro agrees to assist in the search for Hashirama’s husband within the ether in exchange for Sakura’s assistance in helping him search for Orochimaru in the corporeal world.

Gratitude blooms in her hair like cherry blossoms and gathers at their feet.


	18. Hinata, Kakuzu's Oracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The veil is no obstacle for those who can see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Non-graphic depictions of captivity  
> Kakuzu being a meaty dick like usual

 

 

Kimimaro’s mellifluous voice washes over Kakuzu’s oracle, Hinata, like the notes of a familiar and cherished song. With a soft smile, she answers his call and rises from the depths of the Font of Immortality. Water sluices down her body and makes the thick curtain of her hair cling firmly to her shoulders.  

She listens patiently as her cohort explains Sakura’s plight, down to the minutia, until Obito growls in frustration and bullies Kimimaro out of the way. Ignorant of the way the God of the Moon’s bone-armor sharpens in threat, Obito barrels on with his own significantly more succinct retelling.

Hinata laughs softly and agrees to assist the elder gods’ pantheon in their search for the misplaced God of Hearth and Home. It’s with shared relief that Sakura releases her death-grip from Kakashi’s shoulder.

The cool waters of the Font of Immortality rise up to meet Hinata and offer forth skeins of pure chakra. These, she binds together into intricate knots, weaving until the panoply of color and light folds in on itself. The Gordian knot of color begins to blend and swirl into a darkness so all-consuming that Sakura and Kakashi have to avert their eyes lest the void consume them.

Something oily and undefinable takes root in their chests.

In contrast, Obito feels the flesh of Kamui rise up to greet him like a siren’s call. It’s only thanks to Hinata settling a hand softly on his withers in warning that he is able to resist his own unmaking. He shudders violently and retreats into the cloister of the minor deities’ arms. With one last glance at her shivering companions, Hinata sinks to the ground and dips her hands into the void that is Kakuzu’s violently shifting flesh.

Tendrils rise up and engulf her wrists in their hungry maw. She blushes and averts her face demurely when they snake up her arms and gravitate towards her chest to find her heart. As if able to sense her discomfort, the tendrils retreat and allow themselves to be coaxed back into stillness with a tender touch.

Hinata smiles shyly in the face of her creator’s favor and fits his heart strings comfortably around her wrists. Immediately, her hands begin to shine with the radiant color of each unique chakra fruit in quick succession. Cracks appear across her neck and chest—stemming from each point of contact where the tendrils had writhed against her—and her skin flakes away to reveal a body made of pure energy. Without fanfare, she delves into the world connected to Kamui and allows her life-force to race along the chakra pathways embedded in the Earth. She is surprised to note the thousands of mortals who have somehow drilled down and attached themselves to the World Tree’s roots. She pauses long enough to detach the parasitic hooks with gentle fists, then continues onward.

True to her word, Hinata seeks out the conflagration of energy that is Madara, the God of Hearth and Home.

Her hands stretch and brush against the world outside.

_Izuna pauses on the hillside, back taut and sickle flashing in the sun. Sweat beads on his forehead and shines as golden as the wheat he harvests in spite of Hashirama’s negligence. Intimately attuned to Izuna’s body language as he is, Tobirama aborts his discussion on the technical workings of aqueducts and turns away from his crowd of enraptured mortals. He teleports across the field and immediately begins to chase the unease from Izuna’s shoulders with a touch of frost. Izuna lowers his blade and instinctively presses back against Tobirama’s solid chest._

Hinata disengages herself from Madara’s kin and races on.

_Madara’s crown—discovered soon after Sakura’s disappearance—clatters to the floor with a cacophony that is more felt than heard. Echoes of flame thicken the air and, for one brief moment, the woody scent of a crackling hearth rises up like a fever dream. Hashirama glances up sharply and pivots away from the kitchen counter so fast that he stumbles on the trailing edge of his unkempt obi. However, the divine diadem rests upon the floor of his living room, as cold and empty as the two tea cups in his hands._

Brow furrowed, Hinata dives back into the chakra network. It has never been this difficult to find her way in the ether.

In the distance, she can feel something like Madara’s chakra, but it’s a banked ember compared to his typical firestorm. Suddenly, it’s joined by the gnashing teeth of her sire’s rage and the subtle scent of copper and death that only ever lingers around Jashin.

Hinata takes a moment to collect herself and tentatively reaches out to Kakuzu. The brush of her chakra is a question, one whose delicacy is brushed aside and aborted with sudden and bludgeoning force.

Hinata gasps and clutches feebly at her throat as the pain of being forcibly returned to her body overwhelms her. She chokes on a sob, eyes rolling towards the back of her head as the world fades.

When she awakens, it’s to the warmth of Sakura’s arms around her and a ring of concerned faces. Hinata burrows against Sakura’s neck and breaths in the floral scent, grounding and so unlike the sickly sweet smell of Jashin that lingers in the bruises on her own throat.

She murmurs the secret of Madara’s location and Kakuzu’s imprisonment into Sakura’s ear and wishes her luck in the oncoming days of her mission.

She’s going to need it.

***

It takes a while, but Madara and his sire eventually run out of insults to hurl at each other.

They sit in the dark, panting and exchanging the exact same vicious glare until Madara finally scoffs and looks away, admitting defeat in their idiotic power play. Kakuzu is anything but gracious in his victory, sneering and flaring what little of his power he has access to while wearing a dead man’s flesh.

They’re pathetic, Madara thinks.

With the pecking order established, they settle on the more important task at hand.

Possible ways of breaking the seals that bind their powers are bandied about and shot down with ruthless efficiency. They take offence at each other’s scathing commentary, but with a bit of creativity and abstract thinking, they arrive at a tentative solution.  

It’s almost embarrassing how easily Madara, still woozy from Jashin’s influence, staggers to his feet and passively gathers the kinetic energy from the air. He dances with graceful fluidity until he’s garnered enough to make his palms heavy with it. In so doing, he manages to bypass the inked seals on his body that prevent any outward expression of godly influence. Kakuzu rises and follows in his flowing footsteps with absolutely none of the fire child’s grace. Even without the length of chain connecting his bracers to the wall, he could never hope to achieve that level of elegance.

The wake of energy amasses around the mortal tethers on Kakuzu’s wrists long enough to disrupt the knot his chakra is twisted into.

Why Jashin thought that it would be a good idea to place the two of them in the same cell is beyond him. She is a transient, petty thing at the best of times, and, like always, her own lack of forethought ultimately proves to be her undoing.

The primordial god, Kakuzu, bursts forth from his host in a swath of gore that coats the walls and puts a disgruntled frown on his least-hated child’s face. They stand silent in the gloom, clothed in nothing but mortal blood, crownless, and looking for all the world like the dregs of existence.

Bemused, Kakuzu graces Madara with a derisive snort.

Though he tries to remain stoic in the face of his sire, Madara can’t help but let slip an answering bark of laughter at the ignobility of it all.

Madara pointedly holds his arms aloft, indicating his own predicament. The seals pulse an angry red in time with his heart rhythm.

Grinning, Kakuzu pats Madara’s head patronizingly with a newly disembodied hand and slips through a rent in reality. He’s gone in an instant.  

Miraculously, Madara manages to find several expletives he had missed earlier for his ensuing diatribe. Curse all fathers everywhere, worthless, spiteful villains that they are.

He continues to rail even as he plucks a shard of femur from the gore on his chest and uses it to pick the lock to his cell. He steps out of the holding block—steeped in the foulness of their incarceration—shields his eyes, and scans the bustling city around him.

Meanwhile, Kakuzu cracks back into existence in the town center. He snarls at an ostentatious fountain and idly wonders if his child of fire will figure out how to break his seals.

He will or he won’t.

Either way, Kakuzu has more important things to address.

Lightning crackles and sets the ground aflame with each of his thunderous strides through Takigakure. He pronounces to the town at large that it will _suffer_ for this insult. His rolling baritone demands a sacrificial heart to be delivered each year, for perpetuity. Only in this way can they atone for their sins. Mortals scream and cower in his wake. The scent of fear and piss turn the air acrid.

It’s a heady aroma.

Hissing in anticipation, his tendrils whip wildly and coil around the nearest mortal. Their heart throbs weakly when he tears it from their chest and devours it whole. Even flavored by terror, it’s unremarkable in the way all mortal hearts are. However, the familiar taste of his own stolen chakra draws him up short. Apparently his sister has been quite busy in his absence.

Time holds its breath.

A quick dip of his tendrils into Kamui reveals the telltale signs of the theft of his power.

His Oracle reaches out to greet him once more, aura filled with empathetic concern. For her, he stops to listen, graces the hidden veil with one of his ether clones. There’s an odd assortment of lesser gods at her back, but Kakuzu ignores them in favor of attending to the narrative tapestry she weaves. It’s a melancholy tale of the World Tree guardian’s seduction and unintentional betrayal. There’s a discordant note, though. Obito’s role is conspicuously absent in the retelling, as are the reasons for godlings being allowed to linger.

Kakuzu narrows his eyes at the inconsistencies, but with one glance towards the god with silver hair and clever eyes at Obito’s side, his suspicions subside abruptly. Satisfied, he brushes his knuckles across Hinata’s brow and turns away.

Time exhales and, back in Takigakure, Kakuzu’s face splits into a rictus grin. Jashin and that opportunistic naga will burn for this.

Despite the massive waterfall that obfuscates the village’s entrance, sandy streets sweep out in all directions like the spokes of a giant wheel. The dry air sucks the last remnants of blood and dampness from his skin.

He appears before his sibling in a maelstrom of elemental jutsu, looking for all the world like the bastion of vengeance that he is. Jashin flinches violently at his unexpected arrival and the mortals gathered before them fall back from where they kneel in supplication.

All but one—a human who seemingly bears the marks of Jashin’s favor—are extinguished and robbed of their hearts with a casual wave of Kakuzu’s hand. He snatches his sibling out of the air when they try to flee and pulls them back flush against his chest. He binds them with tendrils the way they bound him with bracers and whispers promises of retribution into their ear.

Each brush of his lips sears their flesh like a brand.  

Jashin calls out, voice tight, and the human who wears their skin lunges at Kakuzu with a series of loud, hysterical expletives. He swings his scythe wildly, but catches only the trailing edge of Kakuzu’s laughter as Kamui devours them.

***

Sometime later, Madara stomps naked through the streets of Takigakure, cursing primordial fathers and upstart humans alike. He cuts through the tableau at the town’s center, using bodies like stepping stones instead of simply walking around them.

Hidan looks him up and down and laughs uproariously before raising his scythe in the hopes that a sacrifice will give Jashin the power advantage she needs to best Kakuzu wherever they vanished to.

It’s a noble thought, but ultimately fruitless.

Despite his lack of magma-infused might, Madara is still a far sight stronger than any human could hope to be. He lashes out with a vicious strike of his heel and spins with the momentum, never breaking stride.

 


	19. Kurama, a star-born power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All actions have consequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  impending doom?

Izuna sits atop a hill and idly chews on a stalk of wheat as he watches the humans mill about. Now that he stays in the village—no longer traversing the world with his brother during the winter months—he feels more like a cattle herder than anything divine. He supposes there’s a certain appeal to it: never having to go without the comforting weight of his husband in his arms, taking joy in guiding his two sons into growing into their birth-right, and actually being around to partake in the prayers and offerings sent up to him on plumes of incense.

It’s nice.

It would be nicer still to share those simple pleasures with Madara.

He sighs heavily and tears up a dry handful of wheat, braiding it into a diadem.

It’s imperative that his errant brother returns. Izuna himself is no stranger to throwing snits and storming off in a big way, but he’s always been as brash and impulsive as his element. Madara is different. He’s the constant flame around which all creation has bloomed—sword, shield, and home all rolled into one.

Abandoning family is not in his character. Not even the severity of Izuna’s betrayal would be enough to sever that bond entirely, he thinks. He hopes.

Surely that wouldn’t be what’s keeping Madara away.

Tobirama forgave him easily enough.

Before his thoughts can take a dark turn, a frightened call rises up from the village proper followed by a small plume of flame. Izuna rolls his eyes and slowly stands, dusting the grass from his bottom and thighs with a burst of storm wind. Ever since his brother left them, there have been humans spontaneously manifesting his gift of fire. The hand prayers they so often use to guide their hymns have been producing weak bursts of divine chakra when they gather at sunrise.

If he’s to be honest, the bedlam it causes amuses him to no end.

Tobirama has taken to calling the odd occurrences jutsus and hoards those mortals capable of molding chakra like prized steer.

It’s cute.

In any event, being left to stew in his thoughts has never ended well. This distraction is a welcome thing.

Izuna calls forth a lightning bolt and casually places his foot into an electric stirrup. With his husband soon preoccupied, the winterizing of the northern rice paddies will fall to him. He disappears into the atmosphere and calls down the rain simply to screw with Tobirama. The thought of returning home to narrowed eyes and down turned lips sets him to laughing in thunderous peals as he races across the village in a heartbeat.

***

At the gates of Konohagakure, Tsunade stands vigil.

Hashirama’s dormancy weighs at her shoulders.

And so, she watches with unblinking eyes and waits for a burst of Sakura petals in the distance, for any word on the God of Hearth and Home.

The other divine powers have filled in as well as they can, but there is no substitute for Hashirama’s gentle touch to bring prosperity to the fields—and for that they apparently need a recalcitrant pain in the ass.

Not for the first time, Tsunade wishes the humans could ferment something strong enough to get her well and truly drunk.

***

Meanwhile, the first kitsune, fashioned from a star’s heart at the dawn of time, stares down in wonder at the queer shape of his new paws. He wiggles his opposable thumbs and watches as his inner fire ripples under his skin. This strange body is certainly a flawed design, but something he thinks he can work with. Kakuzu’s promise of entertainment and a meal on this otherwise insipid planet awaits.

Bipedal walking, however, is going to take some getting used to.

As he totters through the underbrush, the star-beast curses his center of gravity and the soft, fleshy pads of his feet. Each piece of litter on the forest floor sends bolts of pain through him, the likes of which are near blinding. He stumbles free of the forest line with an irritated hiss, cursing acorns and sticks alike.

In the middle of a clearing, the primordial god Kakuzu stands tall amidst a circle of several other star-born beasts. Kurama growls an introduction and scans each one in turn, rolling his eyes at Shukaku’s impotent posturing. The primordial god is less than impressed as well, if his blank stare and languid tendrils are any indication.

As he takes his place among the ring of power, Kurama shifts his pelt to sit more comfortably on his hips, crosses his arms, and waits for Kakuzu to speak.

The God of Destruction’s aims are petty and cruel in a way that only the primordial powers can be. The depth of his vitriol is impressive. Though the mortals carry no blame in their appropriation of Kakuzu’s chakra fruit—and thus the theft of a sliver of his own insurmountable power—he seeks their swift end.

He offers human lives and the stolen chakra within them to the star beasts in exchange for their efforts in completing a task for which he has neither the time nor the inclination.

Of the nine gathered powers, only Kurama and Shukaku step forward to cement the bargain. The others burst forth from their containers and rejoin the night sky.

Kakuzu briefly informs them that his Guardian, Kimimaro, will be rectifying his own mistake by taking care of the God of Discovery, Orochimaru. He also delineates precisely which villages to target, communicating more with the gesticulations of his floating hands than words. However, Kurama and Shukaku are too busy discretely elbowing each other and muttering snide comments to pay overly much attention. Before they even realize he has finished speaking, Kakuzu sinks into the ground and is gone.  

Shukaku lets out a bark of laughter and gives Kurama one last shove before sauntering off, the shimmering spines along his arms glowing blue as he recedes into the darkness. He figures that any humans will do and the primordial upstart will damn well deal with it.

Snarling expletives under his breath, Kurama whips around, takes a wobbly step to correct his balance, and storms off in the opposite direction.

Between one thought and the next, he finds himself perched atop the crown of a massive tree, pelt tails flapping in the breeze. The musical bustle of human feet and the smell of fried dough rise up from below, an affront to his well-honed senses. He shies away from the acrid foulness of humanity and pulls down a mask made of ether to block it out.

The city resonates with the same earthy power as the forest around it.

Kurama snarls at the name resonating through his astral bones, Konohagakure, and makes for the gate.

 


	20. Mito, a Rock Giantess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all wounds can heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Non-graphic battle  
> Depression

Tobirama, God of Ice and Waterways, startles when Mito sweeps into the conference room. He shouldn’t be surprised, he is the one to have sent the summons after all, but the rock giantess never fails to impress. Stones tumble artfully about her legs with each stride like the rippling folds of a gown and each heavy foot fall resonates with power. She stands before him, arms akimbo and one hip cocked, though her attention is swiftly diverted to the raging battle visible from the window at his back.

The night flares so bright with Kurama’s fury that she has to blink rapidly to banish the afterimage. Her affront at being so rudely summoned peters out in an instant.

At ground zero, chakra elements whip the air into ferocious volleys of destruction. Konohagakure’s bones crowd together and stand tall against the assault while clans of humans bunker down in their shadow, but it’s not enough.

Izuna sears through Kurama’s defenses and plasters himself along the creature’s back. He calls forth lances of gold and steel, and pierces Kurama’s flesh as well as his own. In an instant, a web of molten metal binds them together long enough for Izumo and Kotetsu to sweep in and clap shackles of woven vines about Kurama’s ankles. The bonds hold and Tsunade dives forward to deliver a devastating blow straight through Kurama’s ether mask with her hammer. A mighty gong resounds and the force of it bowls them all over in a haphazard pile of limbs. The scene would be comedic if not for the swath of mortal lives snuffed out by Kurama’s retaliatory corona of star-fire.

Before the blinding flash dissipates, Kurama flings the elder gods off of himself and opens his mouth wide. Dark matter begins to build, hastened by his rage. These insignificant mites will have to use far more than brute force and pain to extinguish the might of a heavenly body.

However, before he can build a substantial enough nexus of power, a translucent spirit trots up and allows Kurama’s claws to pass right through him. The figure insinuates itself well within his personal space.

For the first time in his long life, Kurama is at a loss.

He shakes his head, confused by the sudden wave of a sensation he’s never before experienced, and refocuses his attention on the bowl cut crowding his vision. With a grin like a kunai, Gai beams up at him and abruptly drives him into the ground.

Kurama stares at the sky in a daze and pointedly refuses to consider the fire in his loins. He will come to find out later what that sensation heralds and the fact that finding his end at the hands of a fertility spirit really shouldn’t be this anticlimactic by default. Regardless, he rallies his wits enough to combat the sensation and half-rise.

Together, Tsunade and Gai cock their fists back and strike Kurama’s chest with such strength that his meteor-iron ribs crack. To be a star in the heavens is to be constantly in pain, bracketed by the frigid chill of space as your own substance devours you from within. Even so, the agony of spring blooms bolstered by the ponderous weight of a rock slide bring him up short.

 

Blind and half-deaf, his dirge is a boisterous commentary on youthful vigor.  

Mito appears during the lull of combat, flanked by Tobirama. The seals carved into her stone flesh ripple and flow, constantly in motion as she kneels next to the ill-fated star-beast. She gently pats Gai’s hip and orders him to stand down, which he hastens to do, grinning all the while. Kurama is quick to pull one of the tails of his pelt across his lap and swallows against the tightness in his throat.

Without fanfare, Mito makes a complicated series of hand seals and claps her palm against Kurama’s chest. Tendrils of script shoot across his body and arrest every powerful burst of resistance. The soul-deep anguish of being bound has him howling his displeasure to the heavens and cursing Kakuzu’s name cacophonously enough to make the gathered gods flinch and the mortals cower.

Mito frowns and covers his mouth with her hand. The threat inherent in her furrowed brows doesn’t go unheeded.

She turns to inform Tobirama that Kurama will have to be bound into a body of mortal flesh for the danger to truly be contained—asks where Hashirama, the God of Creation, is and why he has had no part in this days-long battle. Without inflection, Tobirama briefly explains the circumstance behind the absence of his brother’s mind if not his physical form. Though the answer obviously displeases Mito, she nods sharply and goes about a different way of obtaining a vessel of flesh.

She quickly scans the ring of survivors brave enough to slip past Konohagakure’s defenses and garner a peek of the battle’s aftermath.

Satisfied, she points.

Tobirama reluctantly follows the path of her finger, gaze settling on a shock of blonde hair and ice-blue eyes.    

He knows this young man well, has watched him grow tall alongside his own sons.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, he approaches the guileless human with an affected smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

***

Still clutching two cold cups of tea, Hashirama sits seiza at the kotatsu and slowly blinks away the moisture from his eyes. Mito is here. He can feel her signature, cold like the stone she was born from—another of Kakuzu’s mistakes. Though he knew her once, she’s certainly no Madara.

Ashamed at his own discourteous thoughts, he curls forward to feel the prongs of Madara’s crown dig into his chest. His fiery husband will return. He has to. Otherwise there will be not be a world worth sustaining.

Some distant part of him regrets the weight of the mantle he has placed on Tobirama’s shoulders in his absence—regrets that he can do nothing to ease the pain of the child who houses them all. But, that part of him is dwindling quickly, dragging his tenuous grasp of sanity along with it.

Ferrous spires pierce his skin, unremarked.

 

 


	21. Naruto, a Demi-God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many flavors of sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Sorry, folks!** I got distracted doing prompt fills over on Tumblr and forgot to post. lol XD (But those drabbles incidentally added to this fic, so there we go.)
> 
>  
> 
>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Non-graphic violence  
> Dissociation

 

 

Naruto gapes in awe at the gathering of elder and minor gods whose unerring focus pins him to the spot. He’s no stranger to divinity—he would probably be considered a demi-god himself considering the amount of time he spends teasing and training with Tobirama and Izuna’s sons—but this is a bit much. He laughs awkwardly, voice thin and forced, and puts his hands up in placation.

Excuses spill from his lips as to why he suddenly needs to be going. However, his rapid back-peddling is arrested by a sudden and chilly collision with Tobirama’s chest. The god who is like a surrogate father to him places his hands on Naruto’s shoulders and explains the dire situation as briefly as he can. Naruto scans the devastation around them and flinches when his gaze returns to the star-beast responsible. He sobers quickly and closes his eyes.

Though he doesn’t entirely understand what he’s agreeing to, Naruto squeezes Tobirama’s hands in both answer and supplication. If it’s for the village, he’ll do it no matter how scared he is.

That haltingly whispered consent is all Mito needs to begin. In an instant, Naruto finds himself supine on the ground with Kurama a blazingly hot presence at his side. He stares wide-eyed as Mito’s hands descend towards his bared stomach, beads of sweat rolling down his temples. Thankfully, Tsunade takes up a position sitting seiza at his shoulders. With a gentle touch of divine chakra, Naruto’s eyes slip shut and the tension drains from his body into the loam of the earth.

Naruto’s mortal energies exist in a frenetic latticework that Mito is admittedly unfamiliar with. Still, she, presses her hands through the paper thin skin and into Naruto’s stomach, taking hold of the more orderly strands of divine claim that flow within him. Her brow wrinkles and she disguises an improper huff of laughter as a cough at the feel of precisely whose divine mark sets the rhythm of his human heart. Shaking her head at the sign of young, impetuous love, Mito continues to carve out a hollow in his soul, just large enough for Kurama to be housed.

The process is slow and laborious for a human—causing Naruto’s body to seize violently throughout the night—but near instantaneous for the gods observing the process. As Naruto’s vicious spasms have finally dissipated and the seal on his stomach settles, Izuna steps forward and claps his hands together with the sound of a hammer strike. A shimmering vessel takes shape in the cloud of sparks. This, he offers to Mito to house the displaced portion of Naruto’s soul.  

When Naruto awakens, it’s to the sight of the vast blue sky and the sweet sound of a gurgling fountain. Tobirama, gently eases him upright and offers a rare smile that dulls the ache in Naruto’s chest. He returns the god’s favor with a blinding grin of his own and feels reborn.

Kurama’s agitation continues to rage against his ribcage from within, and it feels like a part of what makes him him has been taken, but those are inconsequential hurts compared to the sheer joy of knowing that the village is safe once more. 

***

Time passes differently here in this liminal space between worlds.

Katō Dan can’t recall an instance when there was no linear ruler against which to measure the flow of the ether, but he’s heard the stories—crooned by a mouth more suited to lies than these spirant truths. He’s not had a handle on his own state of existence in so long that anything makes sense if presented to him as a shiny enough bauble.

And Orochimaru is nothing if not gilded.

Shimmering scales, eyes like inset obsidians, and wings glimmering with all of the colors of the sunset, even in quiet repose. He’s a captivating creature and Dan isn’t afraid to say he’s lost. Tsunade’s containment seal lies tangled between his fingers and the God of Knowledge’s claws where they settle on his chest, rising and falling slowly with each breath. The evidence of their lovemaking sticks and pulls at the soft scales on his belly.

It’s probably not the wisest choice to give so much of himself when his pieces are already scattered, but Orochimaru is endlessly enchanting beneath his layers of ambition. There’s an intelligence there and a passion that ignites as much as it soothes. He can’t think of a more worthy being to hold his heart.

Though, the stealing of chakra fruit from the great tree was rather petty, and Dan informed him as much, particularly when the elder gods were already beholden to his gifts of learning. Orochimaru had dipped his head in acceptance of the rebuke, all slit-eyed humor, and moved on to distract Dan with other things.

Dan smiles into the darkness at the memory of thin lips and far too clever hands. Water drips somewhere off in the distance as he allows his mind to float.

_The sound of a coursing waterfall serves as ambient noise. Dan looks down upon the grisly scene of a man’s body torn through from the inside out—pans across the empty jail cell to two sets of abandoned shackles. He stands there for a time, arms akimbo, and sighs._

_The oracle, Hinata, had told him where to find Madara, but apparently the God of Hearth and Home hadn’t deigned to stay put. He kicks the offending pile of chain and bursts forth into the daylight, an explosion of cherry blossoms fluttering to the ground in his wake._

The return to his own body is a smooth, easy transition this time. Thankful for the reprieve, Dan flicks his tail and widens his legs to more comfortably take Orochimaru’s weight. He buries his face into the luxurious fall of his hair.

_And then he’s burning. Screaming with lungs that aren’t his, being torn apart like a star gone nova. Something mighty, with all the give of stone, crushes him down, down, down into an aching chasm. The pain is so intense—defeat, remorse, and physical rending all combined into one bright point of agony._

_He curses the primordial god, Kakuzu, with his last breath and rages against Kurama’s smug, sanctimonious smile. The fox tells him to stop whining and just take it, words spilling from a mouth not his own. Above him, he sees the shifting colors of Orochimaru’s wings on another body and he somehow knows the wrongness of it is just a taste of what is to come._

When he returns this time, there are slender hands on his face, a soothing voice in his ear, and the weight of thousands on his soul. 


	22. Shikamaru, a shadow creature (and soul segment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The soul remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Hidan kind of sort of being a Chad

The village settles once more following the star-beast’s rampage. The gods rebuild—slower this time without the benefit of Hashirama’s gift—and the humans repopulate. There is sorrow for a time, but the humans inevitably move on. They’re of sturdy constitution and recover from their hurts far more gracefully than the gods.

Izuna takes it all in with a soft smile. He settles his chin on Tobirama’s shoulder as they watch the sunrise together, and breathes deeply of the cool scent that has become home. With the chill of a gentle kiss on his cheek, joy feeds the furnace in him once more until his eyes blaze with it.

Behind them, in the house they share, one of Izuna’s many golden vessels clatters to the ground. Luckily for the creature inside, a tatami mat cushions its fall and muffles the potential cacophony. The discarded piece of Naruto’s soul studies its container from within and considers the make of it from its new vantage point. The craftsmanship is fine, as only a god can produce, but somewhere there is now a flaw from the impact. It can feel the ever-so-slight discord resonating in the echoes of the disturbance.

A whisper of incense curls around the shadowy slip of soul and quickly flavors its container with Agarwood. The creature grabs hold of the holy scent and languidly follows it back to the micro tear at its source. As beautiful as the vessel is—all delicate curls and masterfully hammered detail—the god of the forge shouldn’t have used such a soft metal, it thinks as it eases its near insubstantial bulk through the rend.

A shadow, long in the morning sun, slips through the floorboards into the crawlspace below, then gathers itself and surges along the grass and trees towards Konohagakure proper. It observes the mortals that gather there for a time and crafts itself a form based on an amalgamation of many different faces and bodies. Shikamaru is the name it gives itself. A man, it thinks.

He runs his hands over his face and chest to make sure that all of his landmarks are where they should be, then shoves his hands into his pockets and braves the masses. He flits about as he anchors himself from shadow to shadow, but keeps the illusion that his body is walking at an unhurried pace. None of the humans seem to notice the extra weight to their wake.

As the sun grows higher, he begins to cling instead to the deep shadows of the shop overhangs and looks up with trepidation. Luckily, he happens upon his goal before the noonday sun devours him completely.

The home he enters is small and boasts a rather spectacular array of trash and debris. Shikamaru shakes his head ruefully and comes to stand beside the larger portion of his soul.

Naruto’s divine companion—as chilly and unimpressed as his father—assesses him for a long minute. It’s with a begrudging nod that he pulls out a shogi board and offers a side to Shikamaru. He claims that his dobe has been even more of a dead-last idiot without the contemplative, strategizing aspect of his soul to keep him in check. Perhaps Shikamaru can stick around for a bit, he concedes.

Naruto’s welcoming smile outshines even the sun and he beckons Shikamaru closer with open arms.

Shikamaru rolls his eyes at the display, but accepts the invitation for what it is. He sinks down on the couch next to Naruto and shudders with a renewed sense of belonging as he gives the demi-god back his shadow.

***

Meanwhile, Hidan tries his absolute best to give the cute, pink-haired girl a shadow of her own. He knows a goddess when he sees one, and it’s not like she’s trying to be circumspect. Hell, half of the bitch keeps exploding into flowers—it’s a bit gross.

Hidan picks absently at the congealed blood packed beneath his fingernails and tries to start up a conversation. Obviously his social skills are lacking on account of the whole dying one too many times to give a flaming shit what mouth sounds people make. He freely admits that. But, the thing is, she doesn’t even give him the time of day.

He asks her how it’s going. She ignores him.

He asks if she’s seen any tall, dark, and ugly fuckers with disembodied hands and attitude problems a mile wide. She ignores him.

He tells her that pretty girls like her should smile more. She punches him with the force of an avalanche and makes him start a new life.

Stuck-up bitch.

He just wanted to figure out where to put his scythe for the least amount of drag.

***

Sakura dissolves her fist into blossoms to get whatever invisible funk that guy was sporting off of her. The human smelled just as bad as the empty prison cell and, judging by the ashy footprint on his chest, she wasn’t the only one he had accosted recently. Disgusting.

As if she weren’t already frustrated with following Hinata’s sight and being too late to catch Madara’s trail.

Sakura sighs heavily, shrugs her long hair off of her shoulders, and looks up to the sun. As she basks in the warmth, ephemeral hands card through her bangs and settle on her scalp, heralding the sweet whisper of Hinata’s voice.

The oracle doesn’t speak in words. This time, she tells the tale of the hot, dry winds of the desert—her tongue shapes images in tones of red and gold, so bright they make the buds at Sakura’s feet bloom. A hundred futures fly away like spokes on a wheel, some filled with the roar of star song, others as black and silent as the void. Sakura turns slowly, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of possibilities, then feels a gentle nudge against her lower back.

She walks forward then and follows the path of Hinata’s will into the darkness.


	23. Sasori, the Harbinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some wishes are best left unfulfilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  None

Sasori of the Sand pulls up his cowl against the terrible beauty of the rising sun. He watches it kiss the dunes, nourishing and devouring all in the same breath. The wavering orange and red hues remind him of when he was a child and stared in awe as the gods of flame strode before him, leaving glass footprints in their wake.

The God of Hearth and Home and the God of the Forge brought peace and plenty to the nomadic tribes of the desert. They gathered them all close and formed a commune, the likes of which had never been seen before. Izuna taught them how to harvest metals from the earth, how to fashion them into tools to make their hard life manageable. He drilled down and brought forth the spring head—a gift from another of their kind, he claimed. Copper cisterns were erected to collect the crisp, cold waters. They shimmered like jewels in the eyes of a people who only knew the bite of chronic dehydration.  

With this gift, Madara instructed them in the art of baking bricks. He patiently showed them how to pack the correct ratio of water and soil, how to bank the fire such that the brittleness was cooked out of them. Together, divinities and mortals worked in conjunction to erect grand structures that could withstand the buffeting winds and the angry sun alike. Bridges arched through the sky as if stair-stepping towards the heavens. There was no limit to the heights they could reach.

Children were born with no knowledge of the gnawing ache of starvation. They had no concept of the monsters men became when resources ran short. Blood was simply what flowed in their veins to bring color to their cheeks, not something to be spilled over a stone-hard round of flatbread.

The seeds of the gods bloomed into a paradise of comfort and plenty.

The oasis had shown like a jewel in the desert.

But then, they left.

Madara claimed that he was not welcome in the desert—that he had already braved his sister’s wrath for long enough. He bade them farewell and melted back into the earth with his brother in tow.

Sasori frowns imperceptibly as he recalls that dark day then glances back at the ruin Sunagakure has become. Having left without instilling any sort of infrastructure or contingency plans for those mortals under their care, the gods’ city lays in disrepair.

The oasis has simply dried up. They don’t know how to extend the well, and so they suffer for it.

Political upheaval hounds the steps of his father, the first Kazekage. His mother struggles to maintain adequate crop growth.

His brother, Gaara, wanders the desert and studies the cacti dwelling there for potential propagation, to no avail. There are simply too many of them cloistered in a village without resources. The children that are now in their teenage years learn those hard lessons that much of the clans had so long ago.

It’s horrifying to see what good human beings can devolve into when denied their creature comforts—even more terrifying when their stomachs ache.

Faced with the realization that they will all offer their bleached bones to the sandstorms if nothing is done, Sasori pursues a different track. If divinity is what brought their prosperity in the first place, it will be divinity that brings it back.

He dives into the catacombs and chases whispers of myths and legends. The city groans under the yoke of civil unrest, but he’s deaf to its cries here in the cool tombs. There are tightly-bound scrolls interred with the bodies down here.

Tallow bread-crumbs and footprints in the dust lead him quickly to the largest repository of scrolls, the morbid library where Gaara does much of his cataloguing and research. Thinking this is where he will discover the knowledge he seeks, his disappointment is palpable when he burns through two candles completely without success. After scouring each and every scroll slot, he notices that the splotches of wax he had followed into the library turn red nearer the wall.

He goes to trace them to their source and finds himself entering into the gloom of a small, obfuscated tunnel. Even he has to stoop to navigate it.

Eventually, the ceiling texture shifts from intricate brick-work to rough-hewn stone and grows so low he winds up on his knees. It’s awkward going with only his legs and one arm to propel himself, but as his own white tallow splatters between the red, he comes to an ill-used chamber where his candle is not powerful enough to illuminate the far-off walls. Sound bends in strange ways here.

He stands, ignoring the ache of bruises on his knees, and enters without preamble.

If Sasori were a lesser man, he would shy away, questioning why his voice doesn’t echo while his footsteps do. Regardless, he puts his hand to one edge of the doorway and follows it around to a heavy iron casket pocked with a single scroll case at its center.

Finally, he finds what he needs.

His father has repeatedly told him that grand wishes solve nothing, but Sasori begs to differ. Here is irrefutable proof.

Without hesitation, he unrolls the scroll on the ground before him and scrutinizes each line of kanji, enraptured. It comes as a shock to discover his grandmother, Chiyo’s, handwriting inlaid into a delicate map to a land beyond.

Kamui is the key.

She offers no explanation of what that is, exactly, except that it serves as a doorway that can be accessed for a price. His grandmother warns that through this doorway is a place where humans are mere puppets to the immortal beings of the void, but one wherein the djinn reside.

Sasori smiles as his candle flickers. He can save them. He can save them all.

Quick as thought, he allows his light to gutter out and flashes through the hand seals his grandmother described, binding them with blood. The scroll turns into a smear of viscous  _otherness,_ so black that it stands out even in the darkness. From it, the world pulses in warning as Kamui rends a hole through the fabric of space-time and gapes wide beneath him.

Sasori holds the image of his family close to his heart and accepts the invitation to oblivion without fear.

***

Hinata flinches violently away from her scrying pool and slaps at the surface to dispel the image of a man’s sly, sardonic smile. His golden eyes haunt her as she shuffles away and the lingering touch of his interest fails to detach entirely. Kimimaro goes to the Oracle quickly and wraps his slender arms around her as she shakes. When the tremors fail to ease, he presses her face against his chest and kisses her hair. He croons to her in colored light and unlatches the djinn’s hooks, dashing away the after-images of red-stained sand.

He wonders what it all means, but Hinata stays unusually quiet, clinging to his shoulders.


	24. The Third Kazekage (Tenno Notama), The Lord of the Djinn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pitfalls of conceit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warnings:_**  
>  Mutual manipulation?  
> A reference to sweetbreads as if offal isn't absolutely disgusting?

Sasori winces and throws his hands up instinctively as he is consumed by the abyss.

There’s no wind whipping past him and his garments don’t flutter or sway, but there is still the queer sensation of falling. It continues long enough that he is able to swallow the instinctive fear and focus instead on the vague suggestions of things flitting through the darkness.

He watches it all as he sinks deeper and fails to notice the floor swiftly rising up to meet him.

The hard landing takes him by surprise and slams his air from his lungs. He moans as he lies on the odd gray blocks that constitute the terrain of Kamui, gasping to regain the breath that is knocked from him. Once his vision clears, he looks in all directions and falters. This is the realm of the gods according to Chiyo’s map. The seal should have brought him right to the djinn’s doorstep. He wonders what could have possibly gone wrong and says as much as he regains his feet. His protestation is met with laughter as dry and abrasive as a sandstorm.

Sasori whips around to find a whirlwind of black sand coalescing into the form of a man where before there was nothing. The djinn brushes the last traces of dust from his shoulders and approaches Sasori with a predatory fluidity. He introduces himself as Tenno Notama, Third Lord of the Djinn, without having to be asked. His voice is as deep and infinite as the desert and his piercing gaze is a sharp, dangerous thing. He doesn’t hesitate to step close and card his tapered claws through Sasori’s hair when he gives his name in turn. This close, Notama smells like iron and blood.

With a flick of his fingers, the gray blocks fade into an oasis the likes of which Sasori has never seen before, even when Madara and Izuna had first blessed Sunagakure. Trees burst forth in a panoply of green and gold, shrouding a crystalline spring. Birds sing and flit between the boughs like colored gems.

It’s a veritable paradise.

The djinn takes him by the hand and guides him to sit beneath an elaborate, canvas pavilion on a palette of pillows so fine Sasori thinks they must be hewn from clouds. Notama lies with him and feeds him delicate slices of fruit and sashimi by hand. It’s Sasori’s first time ever having fish, but he finds himself developing a taste for it quite readily. Though, he finds himself developing an even greater affinity for Notama’s effortless power.

This control of the world around them is a leash that Sasori—in his illusory superiority—thinks would fit well in his own hands. Sunakagure’s plight is important of course, but Sasori has always been a long-term strategist. If he could take this power for his own, Rasa, his father, would no longer need to rule with such a heavy hand—the people would fall into order with wonder in their eyes and savory sweetbreads in their bellies.

Blinded by his own avarice, Sasori initiates a game between the djinn and himself, one characterized by the exchange of teasing glances, light conversation, and accidental touches that are no accident. Grinning knowingly, The Lord of the Djinn returns these affections in kind and offers up stories of Chiyo’s time in his domain and of his loneliness in the vacuum of her acerbic wit.

Sasori latches onto this bit of information and takes no time in using it to his advantage.

He chases the taste of exotic fruit on Notama’s lips and bemoans the fact that he himself cannot fill that void. He circumspectly reveals the trials and tribulations of Sunagakure, and how it’s his fondest wish to be gifted with the power to rule his country, to provide for them, to bring the fractured people together, and to give his timid brother the power and constitution to be the guardian at his back.

If only he could ease his village’s ails, he would gladly stay with the Lord of the Djinn and curb his longing.

The djinn, being a rather capricious creature, fills the oasis with his rich, scornful laughter, but ultimately agrees. With a casual wave of his hand, it’s done. He binds Sasori’s promise with a golden ring and fashions a puppet in his image after the first culmination of their pleasure.  

Notama sends the puppet forth to reclaim Suna and assures Sasori that all of his wishes will be granted with the very same selfless commitment and benevolence that the mortal has offered him in turn. His smile never reaches his eyes and his ruby teeth flash like blood spray in the high-noon sun.

An unknowable amount of time passes wherein Sasori learns the very same secrets that his grandmother coveted too much to share. He takes great pleasure in making puppets of his own and falls upon and beneath his husband only when it suits him in his bid to obtain more knowledge.

Almost as an afterthought, he pauses in his studies one day and asks to see his village. His husband steals a kiss and obliges him, as in all things. The spring comes to life and shows him the ebb and flow of Suna’s recent history in the gentle ripple of its waves.

Sasori watches, aghast as he sees his wish come to fruition, but not in the way he had intended. He finds it impossible to look away, though he tries, from the image of his puppet-self stepping over the body of his father and assuming command. He brings the village together, just as Notama said he would, but it’s against him. Suna rises up to depose the kin-killer. They bind him and hide his immortal body beneath the sand until all that remains are hushed whispers used to frighten children into obeying. Gaara grows older in a cell of his own until, though he can’t see the circumstances surrounding it. His kind brother’s screams rip through the night, breath redolent with the scent of star-beast.

In the end, Gaara becomes a guardian, but of what, Sasori can’t say.

The sand runs red.

He dashes the water and scrambles back, clutching at his haphazard hair and screaming his denial. He has only himself to blame for losing sight of his goal in favor of pursuing his own selfish desires —for trusting the word of a djinn. It’s in their nature to broker in words, not the meaning or intention behind them. And Sasori’s conceited machinations afforded him no favors.

He can see the blood on his hands mirrored in Tenno Notama’s crooked smile.

After-images of his folly flash before him and in that moment of fury, Sasori decides that the game has only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for being late...I just really, really needed to write more MadaGai. XD


	25. Shino, a mythological creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's easier to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warnings:_**  
>  Manipulation  
> Forced feeding

 

 

Sasori punishes his otherworldly husband in the only way he knows how: he deprives him of his affections. The djinn comes to him as he always does, offering soft touches and even softer delicacies. Food is something of a sacrament amongst their kind, Notama claims, though Sasori can never truly tell which of his words are lies and which are truth anymore.

Notama’s offer of fatty tuna topped with pomegranate seeds and finely cut spring onions, Sasori’s favorite, meets with disapproval and a staunchly locked jaw. He pulls the heavenly bite away and wipes his fingers clean, offering his own lips in a kiss that is just as savory. But, again, his doting is met with nothing but cold indifference.

As the sleepless night grows, so too does the djinn’s desperation. He lays behind his husband on the feather-soft bed they share and wraps his arms around his waist in a one-sided embrace. He knows his touch is not welcome, and laments the fact, all but begging for his sweet Sasori to return to him, to tell him what ails him.  

He whispers poetry into Sasori’s skin, made pale by an unknowable number of years spent beneath an artificial sun. The wind blows through the fine linen curtains of their paradise home and brings with it the crisp scent of morning. Sasori finally stirs from his feigned sleep when the first ray of dawn pierces the horizon and sets their desert oasis aflame in its red glow. This is his legacy, he thinks, an endless tenure in a timeless place. No longer is he Sasori of Sunagakure; he is Sasori of the Red Sand and the savior of nothing.

Notama takes the opportunity of his waking to kiss every inch of skin laid out before him, infusing a murmured prayer into each nomadic press of lips. He asks for forgiveness for any unintentional affront that he may have committed.

That the djinn has no idea of the crimes he’s perpetrated against his family wounds Sasori. Notama has no concept of how he has utterly destroyed the last remnants of an already tattered soul. Or perhaps he does, fetid djinn.

Shoulders set with resolve, Sasori rises to straddle his husband, his thighs bracketing sharp hips in a way that’s oddly comforting in its familiarity. A platter of fruit from the day prior sits innocently on the elaborate rug beside their futon. Sasori retrieves it and proceeds to give Notama the unerring affection that he pleads for.

Sasori feeds him generous bites of banana, then sugared dates and peeled grapes. He plies him with foodstuffs until Notama gently rejects the next bite. But, Sasori doesn’t stop. Instead, he cracks open a pomegranate and digs into the red fruit aggressively. Palmful after palmful of pomegranate seeds find their way to Notama’s lips. Their juice stains Sasori’s fingers like blood and drips down Notama’s chin.

He viciously forces the fruit down his throat and snarls with satisfaction. He tells Notama that it is a small wonder Chiyo left as soon as she was able, that the djinn will never experience true devotion when all he knows how to do is drag his lovers into despair.

Notama clutches his wrist and begs for him to stop.

Sasori wrenches his hand away, flinging seeds across the duvet, and yells inarticulately. He drives Notama down and snarls in his ear that if he wanted a servant to love, he should have kept the puppet for himself and set Sasori free.

Appearing heartbroken and more than a little lost, the djinn holds his husband close and sobs into his fiery hair. He begs for mercy, for a second chance to make things right, to love him.

The emotional affect doesn't make Sasori bend. If anything, it strengthens his resolve. He bitterly repeats his prior sentiment, that Notama should have married a puppet if he wanted a mindless sycophant. It’s an inordinately cruel thing to break a man, he knows. The brutal act moves him just enough to let slip one kernel of truth. So quietly that it’s no more than a whisper, he wishes that he could banish the pain and guilt of having sentenced his family to such a wicked end. He wishes that he could have grown to share a more honest version of Notama’s promises of unadulterated devotion, an endless love.

Notama breathes in the warm, living scent of Sasori one last time. Then, he snaps his fingers.

Sasori opens his eyes to darkness and the smell of rot.

***

In the days to come, Notama banishes the oasis that reminds him so agonizingly of the love he and Sasori shared and begins his lonely sojourn across the endless void of Kamui. He is not foolish enough to have thought that keeping Sasori was going to be without its trials, but he had so fervently hoped. Or so he convinces himself. His kind is well known for only pursuing the things they are denied.

His chest aches with the loss, momentary though he knows it is.

With a deep sigh, he allows his corporeal form to scatter upon an imaginary wind and seek out the one who can guide him home.  

***

Shino, the current overworked and underappreciated guardian of Kamui’s gates, stretches his multitudinous legs and uncoils with a yawn. In Obito’s absence, he’s been far too busy with the comings and goings of the gods to be able to manage more than six months of sleep at a time. At this rate, he’s likely to burn out all of the power in his name. Not that it seems to matter. The divine beings keep calling him “Obito” in any event. He sighs and adjusts his glasses.

At least the call which woke him was addressed to him this time, he thinks.

He shakes his head and scuttles over the gray landscape in a flurry of chitinous clicks, honing in on the thrumming power signature that summoned him. Surprisingly, it meets him halfway and crests over him in an abrasive wave, pelting his hard exoskeleton with sand that quickly coalesces into one of the djinn Obito had so vehemently warned him about.  

Small talk has never been Shino’s forte; the gods are typically content to hold their own one-sided conversations, or keep their blessed silence. But, this djinn is different. Unsettling.

The djinn introduces himself and readily imparts his need to enter the mortal realm. Shino knows better than to be fooled by his congeniality, knows better than to taste the chakra-laced food that he offers. Still, he keeps a swarm of divine insects between them and wraps them around the lower half of his face like a scarf.

Notama smiles knowingly.

As Shino rends open a tear in the veil, Notama calls forth his own pocket dimension. A puppet of his exact likeness falls out and teeters on wobbly legs. Notama explains that a being of pure chakra, like himself, cannot exist in the mortal realm for long without a vessel, a container of sorts. He folds his essence into the wooden body and opens his eyes to look upon Kamui one last time. It’s not something he’ll miss—it’s not home after all—but it did house him.

Shino nods and offers the djinn well wishes. With a laugh that tinkles like wind chimes, Notama allows his phrasing to go unpunished and dives through the portal.

As it snaps shut, Shino wipes his brow and collapses to his thorax. That was far too close of a call. He idly wonders when Obito will return so he can go back to keeping the simple company of insects.

***

Sasori has no concept of time in this black hell. He counts the days by the doleful drip of what he thinks could be water in the distance, but could also be footsteps. Regardless of where the sound is actually coming from, it’s not an accurate measure of anything other than the extent of his dwindling sanity. He's not sure how, but he knows this is the cell in which his puppet self was interred. He does not eat. Does not sleep. Simply sits idle and scratches at the floor with wooden fingers. 

He closes his eyes and waits for a death that he somehow knows will never come. Little by little, the memories of his past leave him. 

When the last remnant of his mortal life is forgotten, the rhythmic sound that has been his only company grows nearer—footsteps, then—and stops. A cacophonously loud snap echoes in the dark.

In an instant, Sasori’s bare feet sink into the sand on the top of a massive dune. He knows his skin should be burning, his eyes should be protesting the blinding noon-day sun after his forced tenure in the darkness, but all he can feel is the font of chakra at his back, enveloping him in an embrace that speaks everything of love. It’s strange, he thinks, how much lighter he feels without the chains of grief moored in his discarded mortal body. He has no idea why he was so upset before. Notama kisses his neck and spins him around to chase the taste of sandalwood into his mouth. Sasori sinks into him eagerly. They map each other with tongues made of poplar and fingers of beech as Sunagakure bears witness to their union.

Cresting the rise of an adjacent dune, Madara, God of Hearth and Home, catches sight of them and rolls his eyes. He has far greater things to worry about than of a couple of overly amorous djinn-wrought puppets.

He returns Notama’s distracted wave and carries on towards Konohagakure.


	26. Konan, the Goddess of Shaping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even gods aren't immune to the power of wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/n: Occurs concurrently with the Third Kazekage’s chapter.)

 

  
Konan, the Goddess of Shaping, wakes from her slumber to the cool air of Sunagakure’s bones and the scent of astral bodies and djinn magic. 

The cloying perfume is strong enough to suffocate.

She recalls the scraps and torn pages of her flesh from among the mortals’ catacombs. Some take longer to return than others. Still more do not return at all. After a time, what remains of her body coalesces into the constantly shifting suggestion of a woman wearing the sky at her back.

Fluttering apart at the edges, she rises up through the sand and reacquaints herself with the world above. 

* * *

 

The mortal civilization inhabiting her city has obviously fallen into ruin in the past decade. Gone are the caravans, the colorful banners, and the lively music made with strings and breath. Likewise, her brothers, Madara and Izuna, are nowhere to be found—not that she had ever exactly made her domain welcoming for them. The spring they crafted has long since dried up into the cracked and eroded bowl of the oasis and in its place stands a star beast of such size and gravity that the night seems to bend around it.   
  
It laughs cacophonously as it crushes a squat, mud-brick home beneath its claws, then toys with the broken bits of stone and flesh stuck to its palm.

Konan cocks her head to the side at the display. It’s not as if she’s ever had a close connection to the humans that her siblings have so diligently propagated. But there’s a discord in the star-beast’s corona that she takes particular exception to. It finds amusement in destroying those too weak to resist.

Ah. 

Then this will be her first act upon waking.  

Her body peels away and whirls about the massive tanuki in a whirlwind of parchment-thin sheets of chakra. Shukaku barely notices the cavalcade of pages descending upon him, distracted as he is by chortling at the gore between his claws. The slivers of energy swarm past his defenses—sharp as knives—and embed themselves within the chinks of his stone armor.

One by one, his joints tighten and his limbs fall still, pierced through and bound by the might of Konan’s will. He screams his fury into the night at this unknown assailant and gnashes his teeth. His ire grows exponentially as the brilliant blue of the goddess’ mantle of sky settles across his eyes and blinds him.

Then, in an instant, the pain disappears. 

A calm serenity filters in and soothes the fury from his mind. The furrow in his stony brow releases and his claws hang slack. He sees a young girl holding on to one of the bony protuberances of his wrist, hears the chime of her merriment. There’s no immediate press to rage on, no draw beneath his breast towards destruction. It sprinkles down like sand and is carried off by a gentle wind. Instead, there’s only this cherubic expression of innocence to sooth his aches and draw him into tranquility. He focuses on those odd, purple eyes and surrenders, sinking to his knees and reaching out to pillow his head on an out-flung arm.

As his eyelids grow heavy and star-song thrums like a lullabye, a flash of gold irises and purple lips in the child’s countenance strike a discordant note. Shukaku reacts the only way he knows how when faced with the unexpected. He lashes out without warning and returns the girl’s remains to the earth.

The vision shatters.

Immediately, the scene dissolves in a concussion of sound so deep it’s felt more than heard. Volleys of sand whip forth, drawn out of the desert’s veins. This is a goddess’ fury. Konan’s violent sandstorms lash away the outermost facades of Sunagakure’s adobe houses and cut large swaths into the desert itself.   
  
Shukaku finds himself buffeted from all sides. He fights for breath, drowning in the deluge as Konan resolutely changes tactics and begins to bind him by force instead of coercion. Where Kurama gave in to the inevitability of his fate, Shukaku viciously fights against his captor. Beams of starfire split the night sky and explosions without sound rock the city’s bedrock. 

Regardless, Konan’s composure never breaks. Her strength never wavers.

She reaches out to her more remote pages–those housed deep beneath the human settlement and well-tended by a young man whose love of knowledge is only outstripped by his devotion to his long-lost brother. Gaara startles as the books come alive in his hands and embrace him with far more sincerity than Sasori ever had. 

Like the beauty of the desert, Konan’s favor is not a gift without price. Her humans have always known this and have never wavered.   
  
In a blink, she pulls Gaara to her side, holds him aloft on a blanket of paper seals and burrows into his soul without fanfare. She does not concern herself with pretending to ask for consent, as Mito does with primordial forces and their containers. He is young, strong, and the most appropriate container of flesh at hand.

There’s no malice in the act, simply cold pragmatism. Though, how she came to that conclusion is a mystery steeped in the oily feel of djinn magic. 

Konan frowns, but stays the course. 

She draws what little moisture there is from the air and drives stakes of paper pulp into the joints of Shukaku’s wrists and ankles. Wind whips barbs of air into his bones, anchoring him to the earth he hates. 

Konan positions her young container beneath his bulk and displaces a piece of Gaara’s soul to make space for Shukaku’s prison. This, she casually casts into the storm where it melds to the shadows of dust motes. She forces Shukaku’s bulk into the void as if packing a wound, then loops the ink from her pages about his middle. A chakra rod serves to wind the skeins of ink tighter and tighter, like the windlass of a tourniquet. 

The seal is poorly done, but holds. 

The starbeast is contained.

Gaara’s gut-wrenching screams echo Shukaku’s, piercing the night. By morning, Sunakagure falls silent, only because there is no more sound left in him. 

***

Tenno Notama looks away from his scrying pool, satisfied that the last of Sasori’s wishes have been granted. 

His husband’s brother now has the power and constitution within him to be the guardian at Sasori’s back.

As requested.  


	27. Gaara, a Demi-God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ties that bind.

 

Baki—Gaara’s uncle by all but blood—holds his nephew’s limp body tightly against his chest and looks up to the shimmering mirage of the Goddess of Shaping. She doesn’t wear her flesh the same way the other gods do. As such, it’s difficult to read whether she returns his gaze with displeasure, joy, or ambivalence.   
  
There’s no obvious clue as to how to navigate the situation intact.

  
The desert does not reward taking risks. Its people know that.  _Baki_ knows that. But, family is his oasis, and one not shared freely. One nephew lost to the higher powers is more than enough; he can’t allow it to become two.   
  
With a deferential bow, he begins to edge back towards the safety of Sunagakure. He’s no coward, but, he’s not too proud to claim his sure, light-footed backpedaling as anything less than a retreat. 

His attempts at masking his fear is pitiable enough to garner a smirk from Konan. Her pages rustle, as close to a laugh as she’s come in ages, then abruptly burst apart and disburse on the wind.  
  
Baki flinches in surprise and takes off running. Adrenaline keeps his legs pumping as the sand tries to suck his sandals down with each step. There is no pain other than that which comes naturally from fleeing through the desert in a divine sandstorm. No paper-thin kunai pierce his back. No blade of wind separates his head from his body for the insult.   
  
Still, Gaara hanging limply in his arms, eyes glassy and unresponsive, is injury enough.  
  
By the time Baki clears the gate, his legs burn just as fiercely as his lungs.   
  
He staggers into his modest adobe home and collapses to his knees. The position could be mistaken for supplication, but no prayer of thanks will ever leave his lips for the gods that have so completely ruined his family.  
  
***  
  
The void of Gaara’s mind is a surprisingly bright thing. Memories of what once was buffet Shukaku’s flanks with warmth and love.   
  
Images of secret smiles on a typically severe face bloom like desert roses. A myriad of touches linger on his armor as if he too can feel the supportive hand of a mother, or share the feeling of a brother’s embrace. This unbridled delight in the retelling is so disparate from the joyless hellscape Shukaku knows Suna to be.  
  
It’s disgusting.   
  
He squints beneath his massive brows and howls his fury. His mighty feet stamp and his claws lash out at specters of light. A starbeast of his magnitude will not be made to suffer in the footprints of Kakuzu’s little pest problem.   
  
Gaara cringes at the soul-deep fury. To escape the rampaging monster trapped within him, he takes to hiding in the interstitial lining of his memories, where only vague scents of remembrance linger. He curls up and makes himself as small as possible to avoid detection.    
  
Things are happening to his body, he can tell. But the sensation and the sounds are so far away, they might as well be static for all he can parse out over the din of Shukaku’s rage.  
  
***  
  
Baki trickles a portion of his own water ration into Gaara’s mouth and waits. A minute passes.   
  
Then two.   
  
Finally, there’s a reflexive swallow. He all but sags against the wall at his back in relief and pulls Gaara close. Tears are not a luxury afforded by desert life and emotional displays are not his way. Still, he hugs Gaara tightly to his chest and presses his cheek against the blood-red hair that so closely resembles that of his lost friend, the boy’s father.   
  
He wants to curse the gods, rail against their wicked games. It seems like they give and take away in equal measure, just to see how humanity will fare.   
  
Not this time, he thinks. He won’t allow them to claim any more lives from Suna.   
  
After having exhausted all of his admittedly limited resources, Baki sends a request for assistance to Konohagakure by messenger hawk. He hand feeds Gaara cactus heart pulp in the days between and tends to his bodily functions with the alacrity of a soldier.   
  
Finally, hope returns in the form of an invitation and an unfamiliar name: Mito.


	28. Sai, a Shadow Creature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rousing the beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _ **Warning:**_  
>  Possession  
> Vague allusions to inappropriate touching (intended to anger Shukaku)

Wind whips the trailing edges of Baki’s face wraps and pelts the lines of exposed skin with sand. It stings like the kiss of a scorpion. Still, he readjusts the limp weight of the precious cargo lashed to his back and presses on.

The delicate lines of Mito’s script flare in his mind, her words an oasis.

_Come to me, child of the sand._

Red and gold desert stretches out before him with no end in sight. The sun beats down and tries to sap his strength, but Baki marches on, unrelenting.

_Bring with you the burden of your heart._

One foot in front of the other, one step closer to salvation.

_Come to me, and I will make him whole._

Hours pass spent in the silent company of his comatose nephew. Their long shadows seem to cavort like fish in a pond; be it due to delirium or the aftereffects of Konan’s magic, he can’t say. The dangerous splendor of his homeland is dazzling enough that it very well could be heatstroke.

Each drop of sweat is another grain of sand lost in the hourglass. He only hopes he has enough time to make the journey.

Night falls, seeing Baki and Gaara through safely, and gives way to the rising sun. One night turns into two. Three, and Baki finds himself stamping over boulders and scrubland, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

Pain is inconsequential. Thoughts of Konoha pull him ever onward.

As he crests the rise of a particularly steep bluff, he glances back and takes in the subtle beauty of his home. He allows himself a moment to honor the memory of family lost—Rasa, Karura.

Sasori.

Whether from the intensity of Baki’s introspection or simply a product of exhaustion, Gaara’s initial stirring goes unremarked. It’s only when dull teeth dig into the side of his neck that Baki realizes what’s happening. Hissing at the unexpected pain, he cuts the rope binding Gaara to him and staggers just out of reach.

Without Baki for support, Gaara wavers and staggers about as if using his legs for the first time. Once he seems to figure out that settling his weight on the flat of his foot instead of the ball results in better balance, he shifts his gaze to his erstwhile pack mule and sneers.

It’s then that Baki notices the emphasized slant of his eyes and the inordinate amount of teeth crowding his nephew’s mouth. The color drains from his face.

He names himself seven different kinds of fool.

Crying out in glee, Shukaku dives for him. He scrabbles at the dirt where Baki once was and gnashes his weak human teeth at the insult of missing. Regardless, this puling human isn’t worth his efforts, he figures. Sunakagure. That’s where his vengeance lies.

Shukaku canters a pace, more comfortable on four legs than two, then breaks out into a strange, loping run.

Baki immediately races after him, desperate to at least keep the star beast away from Suna even if he can’t save Gaara. However, the monstrous amalgamation of heavenly body and man only makes it half a dozen strides before its momentum slows and comes to a shuddering halt.

Eyes glinting like amber, Shukaku’s attention snaps to the swirling shadows that coalesce beneath his feet. Ephemeral hands peel away from the darkness and flit beneath the hem of his skirts teasingly. He flinches as fingerprints of ink trace meandering lines from his legs to more private areas. Fear has always been a familiar bedfellow for Gaara, but this—this is a new experience for Shukaku. It takes him aback. The foreboding tightness in his very human chest is the stuff of nightmares for a star-beast.

He staggers under the assault and attempts to lash out at the invader with tender fingers in place of claws. A stark blue glow blooms beneath his skin—outshines even the desert sun—but proves to only deepen the shadows lapping at his ankles. His knees. His thighs. His loins.

He wants to scream, but his container’s throat is unable to shape the sounds of stars.

Baki watches the tableau play out, aghast.

In his panic, Shukaku tries to flee, brambles catching at his sandals. He viciously kicks them off only to overbalance and fall to his four ridiculously weak limbs. The loss of his mighty tail is just one of many insults that allow the shadow to overtake him and follow him down.

In his periphery, the swirls of ink-wash tighten and slowly gain form. Soft, black hair floats on invisible eddies, kissing Shukaku’s cheek, and is quickly followed by an even softer pair of lips. A huff of laughter caresses the shell of his ear; it’s clever and thick with Puckish delight. Too much. All of it is too new, too intimate, too foul.

The voice croons and sing-songs a deceptively sweet haiku that Shukaku realizes a moment later is actually a stab at his impotence and lackluster virility.  

He roars his fury as well as he can and bucks off the slight weight draped across his back. The shadow peels off and rolls through the wavering air with the grace of an ornamental koi. Its fins flicker in the sun, unabashedly wet where water should be a precious commodity. Warm orange tones waver amongst the lines of ink and settle in his eyes as his top half wavers, then resolves back into the image of a man.

The shadow creature looks to Baki, names himself Sai in five quick flicks of paint, and banishes the hovering kanji with a wink that can only be interpreted as salacious.

Preternaturally graceful, he curls around the strike meant for his spine and races towards the burgeoning tree line.

Shukaku promptly takes up the chase. He lashes at the air with blue bursts of chakra to cut down on the resistance and shifts the frequency of his resonation to go faster still. Gone is the fear from before, though the aftertaste still lingers, bitter on his tongue. Now, all he can see is the discarded piece of his container’s soul grinning back at him in challenge.

He will destroy it.

He will make this creature scream.

He will show the vexatious thing what it means to challenge a crowning nova.

Behind them, Sunagakure dwindles into the distance, forgotten.

***

In Konohagakure, the leaves whistle like reed flutes, playing a song of peace and tranquility broken only by the good-natured squabbling of the Gods of the Gate.

A flurry of activity accompanies several bursts of laughter as Izumo dodges a round of sweet gum pods thrown like kunai. In turn, he ducks behind one of the more intrepid onlookers and uses the distraction to whip Kotetsu’s feet out from under him with a well-placed vine. The impact is hard enough to throw up a thin cloud of dust and a smattering of applause.

Kotetsu sighs heavily as he lies on his back and stares up at the clear sky, a familiar position. Why Tsunade, the Goddess of Justice, saw fit to have them work out their own arguments is beyond him, but the mortals seem to enjoy watching their immature little tussles.

They are fun, even if he loses nine times out of ten.

Rolling his eyes, he takes Izumo’s proffered hand and joins his partner in the land of the vertical, promptly throwing an arm over his shoulders. Sure, there may be a mound of paperwork with his name now emblazoned on it, but at least he’ll have good company while he wades through the busywork.

Just as Kotetsu begins to jeer right back at the small crowd and wave them off, Izumo shushes him and looks to the East.  

The sky crackles with heat lightning, unseen by mortal eyes.

Izumo swiftly pulls away from his partner and bounds up to the foremost crow’s nest, paling at what he sees on the horizon. The dappled sunlight that constitutes his legs dims and makes it seem as if he is hovering in midair. Kotetsu’s calls of concern go unheeded. This nightmare can’t be happening again, he thinks desperately.

They only just finished rebuilding from the last starbeast.

Never taking his eyes from the raging blue wave of chakra mowing down the great elms as if they were matchsticks, he sends a zephyr down to his partner and tells Kotetsu to alert the elder gods.

He imbues his message with as much urgency as he can, then settles down on his invisible haunches to call forth the power of the forest in preparation.

 


	29. Sasuke, God of Oath and Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the home we return to isn't the same home we left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:**  
>  Public sex  
> Madara...no  
> Violence with brief mention of injury

The Gods of the Gate have never regretted their conception so strongly in their admittedly brief lives.

The stench of the starbeast’s acrid breath has Izumo slapping a hand over his nose and mouth even from this distance. Kotetsu looks between him and the creature, eyes wide and lips slack.

Kurama had been a thing born of nightmares, but they were lucky that the uncouth fertility spirit, Gai, had been there to step in when the gods had faltered. This time, though, there is no chakra fruit-laden Beast of their own to combat the one rampaging straight towards their gate.

Madara is missing.

Hashirama is a shell of his former self—all but useless.

The other gods are strong, but not enough on their own.

In conclusion, they are well and truly fucked.

Kotetsu mentions this to Izumo, who only nods in agreement, never taking his eyes off of the herald of their doom. As one, they blindly reach out for each other and lace their fingers together. It goes without saying that they’ll return to Jashin’s providence before giving up.

But—as they clutch their weapons of sweet-gum and catchweed close—they pray it won’t come to that.

As if summoned by their fervent prayer, a blur of blue cloth and golden hair lands heavily behind them, rattling the gate down to its foundations. Tsunade raises a brow at their hand holding and casually sweeps her hammer up over her shoulder. She scoffs. The little godlings don’t even have the grace to be embarrassed.

Not a breath later, lightning arcs through steadily building storm clouds—blocking out the stars and thickening the air with ozone. It touches down with a blinding burst of light and whips back into the sky, leaving behind the God of the Forge and his husband, the God of Ice and Waterways.

Tobirama lets his arm fall from Izuna’s waist and takes measure of the approaching threat. This will not be a repeat of Kurama. This beast has a fraction of the power the vulpine monstrosity did, and he announces as such.

Still, Mito will be needed once more. An appropriate container, too.

Breathing out a lungful of air he didn’t know he was holding, Izumo quickly starts towards the edge of the walkway, pulling Kotetsu along. If the elder gods want a rock giantess, a rock giantess is what they are going to get.

With the jaws of fear nipping at their incorporeal feet, they race off to deliver the call to arms.

Izuna and Tsunade exchange a wry grin, but say nothing.

Meanwhile, in the distance, the roiling mass of chakra rips free of some as yet unseen binding and explodes outwards. The concussive force of the explosion whips the canopy about and buffets the gods with hurricane-force winds. Leaning into the gale, Tobirama draws power from Izuna’s storm clouds and uses the moisture to form a massive wedge. It bifurcates the fierce wave of power and sends it off careening to either side of Konohagakure. The eddies tear off into fire country and beyond, but he has little time to consider the repercussions.

A massive creature stands head and shoulders above the tree line in the aftermath, moving ever onward.  

Darting before the lumbering monster, a shadow creature—half man, half koi—slices through the air with unmatched grace. It crests the highest rail of the gate and teasingly offers well wishes and good luck before it darts past.

Tobirama snaps his head to follow the creature’s progress, but writes the thing off as inconsequential—a problem to be solved at a later time.

First, there is a star beast to be felled.

With impeccable timing, Mito scales the wall and serves up a boulder for Tsunade, who unflinchingly rears back her war hammer and strikes it with a mighty bellow. Her voice shakes the very roots of Konohagakure. The projectile gains in size and mass as it whips through the air, embedding solidly in the armor chinks at the starbeast’s temple.

A sharp crack pierces the night. First blood flows like a torrent and sets the wet forest litter alight with heavenly corona.

Staggering under the unexpected assault, Shukaku falls to his knees and lashes out in pain. He blindly sweeps his claws of magnesium and his comet dust tail through the trees, knowing only the direction of the attack, not its origin. Tree trunks splinter beneath his might and the air itself vibrates.

Upon the wall, Hashirama joins his family in a burst of writhing branches. There’s a spark in his eyes that has laid dormant since Madara’s loss. It speaks of grief and pain, but purpose too. He will not see the product of his and Madara’s love torn down so easily, much less by an interloper from the heavens.

The threat to his peace will know none of its own.

Watching her father’s blackening aura in concern, Tsunade steps back a pace. Izuna too eyes him warily—he knows that expression, knows the moment when grief turns to hyper-focused rage all too well. He moves to stand between his brother and his husband.

The dried tracks of Hashirama’s tears peel back and drift away on the wind, taking skin with them. On his forehead, the shape of Madara’s last tender kiss to his brow sears through and turns the same sickly crimson.

Raw flesh pulses with unfathomable power.

Once.

Twice.

By the third beat of his earthen heart, Hashirama falls upon the starbeast with madness flickering at his edges.  

***

In the outskirts of Konan’s desert—a thought away from Konohagakure for a god, days for human legs—the shockwave of what can only be Hashirama’s wrath meets a burst of alien chakra. The combined blow of celestial nothingness and decay slams Madara to his knees. He presses his forehead into the teeth of the saw grass beneath him and wretches as a curling wave of nausea overtakes him. By the time he can breathe past the bitter taste of bile, the next wave rocks his godly senses, worse than the first.

To be able to feel and not respond to Hashirama’s need feels like a lance in his chest. His impotence is a set of shackles keeping him from protecting the family he loves.

Filled with a sudden desperation, Madara quickly considers the entities he knows that can easily slip through Kamui’s folds. Powerless or not, he needs to be at Hashirama’s side.

His son’s leonine beau is not even an option after the unfortunate incident with the spirit’s arm.

The centipede monstrosity that roams Konan’s desert is reclusive to the point of being nonexistent.

Konan herself would sooner bind his feet in glass than assist in any way.

Only one option remains, unpalatable as the repercussions may be.

Madara backtracks and runs as quickly as his human legs can take him. Slip-sliding through the dunes, he spies the solution to his plight in the same place he saw the two rutting djinns last.

The sun cycles through the sky twice before he makes it to them, but make it he does.

Madara finds no issue in grasping Tenno Notama, the Lord of the Djinn, by his top knot and wrenching the creature’s head back. Sasori stares up at him, still rocking under the force of his husband and entirely unimpressed.

The elder god blanches at the dead eye stare, but quickly regains his footing. He drops one knee onto the long line of Tenno’s back and rides the motion as the two sand-spawn continue to copulate. Without invitation, he proceeds to tell the tale of his abduction—and subsequent imprisonment—at the hands of the Goddess of Death. Words spew forth and fill the gaps between Sasori and Tenno’s shared panting, though only one of them pays him any mind. Finally, when Madara concludes his tale with a series of smoke-laden expletives, Tenno’s hips begin to stutter.

Madara hisses for him to get on with it and pointedly prods him with his heel. He very loudly asks if this is the only pastime available in the thrice cursed desert or if Tenno and his husband are just particularly unimaginative.

The djinn lord laughs uproariously as he finishes.

Too amused to curse the elder god for his interference, Tenno rolls off of his husband and into the sand, casually knocking Madara away. He ignores the god’s building diatribe in favor of stroking Sasori’s beech-smooth cheek and planting a tender kiss to the tip of his nose. He asks his love to repeat Madara’s tale once more—abbreviated, preferably.

Sasori does so in a monotone. His golden glare never leaves Madara’s face, even as he toys with his husband’s hair and accepts a volley of kisses down his neck and across his clavicle. Grunting in acknowledgment, Tenno leans in to show his appreciation for Sasori’s succinctness more thoroughly.

A sheet of sand rolls past—laced with Konan’s distinctive chakra. It lingers on the uninvited presence in their midst before swirling away and dissipating.

Madara eyes what appears to be a rapidly forming haboob in the distance.

With mounting trepidation, he bullies his way between the djinns and orders Tenno Notama to deliver him to Konohagakure lest he find himself bent under the might of the world’s core. The consequence of denying the elder god’s whims will be awe-inspiring—a horror story for the ages.

There’s a beat of silence before Tenno laughs long and loud in his melodious tenor, Sasori muffling his own huff of amusement behind his palm.

Madara tells the ridiculous creatures that he’ll deal with their contrary nonsense and stipulations when he’s in a position to do so. As it stands, he needs to return to his family and his husband. He will beg if he must.

No matter the cost, he needs to return to Hashirama.

This Tenno can understand.

Sobering instantly, he glances first to his own newly wedded spouse then back at the desperation clearly displayed on Madara’s face. Gracing the entreaty with the respect it deserves, he waves his hand and banishes the elder god from his realm.

The separation of two lovers is a pain Tenno cannot abide. Even so, he sets the price high and idly wonders how the elder god can hope to meet it before falling back into Sasori’s waiting embrace.

When Madara arrives in Konohagakure, it’s to complete and utter bedlam.

Konoha’s gate sways, teetering on a single hinge. The battered posts frame a scene torn from his darkest nightmares.  

Resplendent in armor of ice, Tobirama beats back the vicious, wooden spears that his own brother attempts to ram through his sternum. At his side, Izuna slices through the swiftest of the lances and binds Hashirama’s arms with cords of steel—though his movements are stilted and off-balance as he does so.

The battle is vicious, Hashirama howling like a caged animal—never stilling.

Even Konohagakure itself lends its root system to capturing its near-feral father’s ankles.

Behind them, another skirmish rages on, a starbeast at its center.

Madara stares, aghast. Both scenes are horrific. He knows he is powerless to stop either, but he has to try something. Anything.

Screaming his husband’s name, he makes his choice and starts sprinting towards the gentle tinder that nurtures his flame. Before he makes it more than a dozen strides, Sasuke, the God of Oath and Sword, tears out of the village proper and wrenches him back by the shoulders, flinging him towards the other cowering villagers and blocking an errant branch as it comes for him.

Madara spits curses at his nephew as he rolls ass over teakettle and comes to a stop in the hands of his Uchiha. Before he has a chance to tear after the young upstart, another familiar burst of chakra races past him. Naruto, wreathed in his own noxious starbeast aura, keeps pace with Sasuke’s shadow and dives into the night without hesitation.

Chest tight, Madara turns to his favored mortals for an explanation.

His humans tell him about the coming of the second star beast in hushed whispers. They speak of the God of Creation and Renewal, consumed by rage and attacking friend and foe alike. Even Lord Hashirama’s own daughter could not fully heal the damage done to Lord Izuna’s eyes by the deadly mokuton.

Madara listens to the brief tale without interruption. His clan brushes the tangles from his hair and the dirt from his back, supporting his weight when his legs will not.

There is no shame in allowing them to lower him to the ground. It’s too much. He is himself powerless to stop any of this. Instead, his vision swims and fills with the blurry image of golden swords piercing the night as his nephew steps in to fill the role that he cannot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A/n: The Sauce will play a more prominent role in the next installment. This chapter was just getting to be a bit too lengthy. ^_^)


	30. Hiatus

Hiya, folks! I'm going to be taking a brief break from the Naruto Gods AU in order to focus on rl, commissions, and the like. 

If you'd like to see the artwork for future chapters as it comes out or just want to marinate in an endless stream of Naruto nonsense, feel free to come hang out on my **[Tumblr](https://writhingbeneathyou.tumblr.com/)**!

**Author's Note:**

> Updates weekly on Tuesday (unless I forget and casually stroll in a couple of days late). :D


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